Hot-damn! Like a libidinous sparkplug, everything in Paris seems to have one very suggestive intention: to make you want to go at it like rabbits! From the moment you step off the Eurostar it's all long stemmed roses, sex shops, lover's sighs and wafts of Grace Jones pulsing from the bars. I mean even the bloody food has suggestively raw phwoar!
To be fair it actually started the moment we got on the train. Jake hadn't told me that the tickets were first class! So we sipped champagne. We giggled like schoolgirls when the sexy French Chef de Train asked us if everything was "to our satisfaction". The food was yum! I quickly devoured a mini beouf bourgignon and Jake wolfed down the Fois Gras (gross.)
The train got into Gare De Nord at about 10pm, by which point we were a bit drunk. Well actually more so me than Jake given that I had hardly eaten anything all day because of excitement. So we jumped into a taxi and made our way through the city to our hotel (making the most of our first opportunity to snog, probably to the disgust of the driver!)
The hotel was just amazing. It was on the Place D'Concorde in the 8th arrondissement, so pretty damn central. The décor was really, really beautiful and it was indeed like a set from Dangerous Liaisons. We check in. We walk the long corridor to the elevators to take us up to our room. Along the way I soak up the lashings of suave insouciance by osmosis. Paris is making me feel sexy. Therefore I am sexy.
It gets better. The hotel room, while not huge is, again, pretty damn amazing. Where hotels and I are concerned I am more of a fan of stark Japanese minimalism, but this room was something else. Really, really sumptuous. Louis IV (or something like that) furniture. Huge windows with silk draped curtains. And the biggest bed you've ever seen. No worryingly soiled top cover on this momma – this room is the antithesis of seedy. It made me feel like reciting poetry. Or just belting out the theme tune to "Home and Away".
Maybe the feeling I was feeling was the lurvemic imprint from bygone lover's trysts (either that or the internet Viagra was kicking in) but I make it clear to Jake that tonight is indeed going to be his lucky night! Cue le gay sex.
Jake had to get up early in the morning to set off to his office out at La Defense (interesting trivia - did you know that when they built La Defense they had to erect a giant glass screen to stand in the arch, because otherwise, with the right conditions, the building would create a wind tunnel that would project right down through the Arc De Triomphe, over a mile away, and literally blow people over on the Champs Elysee?) This actually really worked for me because I love walking around by myself, exploring, blending in, pretending to be a native!
After breakfast and a prolonged sesh in the bloody MASSIVE shower I plucked up the courage to call Erin to see if she still wanted to meet me. Being a busy supermodel, I was fully expecting her to blow me out in favor of lucrative shoot for Christian Laboutin or a fan shopping outing with Karl Lagerfeld. But she said that was still free so we arranged to meet for lunch in Saint Germain.
After speaking to Erin I went for a wander around the area. I found a very cute café. I sat in the window, sipped a double espresso, listened to "Rapture" by Blondie on my iPod and did some revision for my next interview ("The Dummies Guide to Starting Up a Business"!). After making my brain ache with the digestion of a few chapters on economies of scale, critical business mass and corporate venturing I decided to have a mooch up the Jardins des Tuileries (the park leading up to the Louvre.)
The Jardin des Tuileries is long. It's also quite long. Did I mention that it's long? I thought that it's length would provide the perfect setting to really get things off your chest, their chest and then back on and off again. Chest perfect! And for what would be the first of many times that day, I felt a pang of self consciousness as everyone around me seemed to be in a pair. Oldsters sat together reading papers, young lovers feeding the ducks, kids running around chasing the ducks. Ducks chasing each other. Even the runners ran in pairs! Oh. And I learned something. Fat male Parisian joggers wear very tight shorts.
By the time I got to the Louvre it was about 11.30am so I tried to decide whether I should get the Metro to Saint Germain or whether I should walk. The map made it look as if Saint Germain was actually quite close by so I decided to walk via the Pont des Arts. The Pont des Arts is the only non vehicle bridge in Paris and is great in the summer. A few years ago my friend Sharon and I had a picnic on it. The benches provide a great position for a nifty vista up and down the Seine.
Was fashionably late to meet Erin (couldn't find the bloody place!) but she was too and I waited a good fifteen minutes before she eventually turned up. I slapped her hard. The place that she picked was not at all what I was imagining it would be like (I had something like Asia de Cuba in my head!) It was actually kinda divey. But I digged the fact that it wasn't at all pretentious – she is just a normal girl from Birmingham after all.
I had a bit of a problem ordering my lunch. I speak French well enough to get by, but I am by no means fluent. I was asking for some milk for my tea and the guy just couldn't understand what I was trying to say. I kept repeating "Lait! Lait!" over and over. And then eventually he realises and goes "Ah! LAIT! Mais oui!" pronouncing it in exactly the way that I had. Stupid French people. Erin thought it was amusing and we lamented the fact that neither of us can speak any languages that well. And the fact that fat running Paris blokes wear tight shorts.
Oh Erin, Erin, Erin! Erin is gorgeous! We chat about all kinds of stuff for a good couple of hours. I totally got the scoop on Jamie (but because Erin and I are, like, such good friends I will not be betraying her confidence. Not unless you want to pay me some hard currency.) I told her about maybe moving back to NYC and she said that I should let her know if I do go back cause she spends quite a lot of time there. Great! Another cool contact I can flaunt when I have my fourth interview!
After lunch we have a little mooch around the area. Saint Germain is just designer-shop-tastic! After procrastinating over what to buy for a bit too long I make a couple of purchases in this really cool designer boutique called "Come On Eileen" which Erin informed me is Kylie's fave shop in Paris. I decided that I should get Jake something to say thank you for taking me away for the weekend. Normally I would never buy anyone clothes for a gift, but I found this really sexy black Dirk Bikkembergs top that I knew would look great on him (he has the body for Dirk B) and would be a much needed break from his usual Gap / Banana Republic get up.
But get what I bought for myself: I found what can only be described as a fierce Sonya Rykiel Homme top. It's made from matte midnight blue silk with a same colored inch thick satin trim that goes all around the edges. Elbow length sleeves and rather than buttoning up, it wraps around the waist with a really long tie at the side (think the top half of a well-fitted dressing gown.) I wore it with a pair of really old tight bootcut jeans with my new black Dolce & Gabbana boots. Not only did Erin love it (it means something when you get the approval of a supermodel), but later when I wore it out I got comment after comment on how great it looked on me! Was glad that I had fake tanned up and spent all those recent hours at the gym (just don't ask me how much it cost!)
Finally Erin and I say our farewells and I jump on the Metro and head up to Abbesses to visit the Sacre-Coeur. Like Everest (or the Kicking Donkey pub in Bath) you have to visit the Sacre-Coeur simply because it's there. The main attraction is well worth the aching ham strings from walking up what seems like a million steps (I really was stiff in all the wrong places!) The incredible view of Paris unites the crowd in a bubble of warmth - cute floppy haired French boys strum out Van Morrison on their guitars as their girlfriends gaze on adoringly. The hippy bliss-out vibe made me want to cop a feel, or maybe even feel a cop. But instead I breathlessly call Helen and Will to tell them that the most perfect thing would be to have them sat there with me, to see this awesome view.
After I got bored I went back to the hotel to watch a bit of French TV (it's crap by the way – everything is in French). After a while I realised that I had spent about half an hour gormlessly watching a French-dubbed version of Law & Order, not actually understanding anything that was happening or being said. Jake got back at about six and I presented him with his new top which he loved.
Saturday night in the Marais. Dressed at the knife edge of understated cool (thanks Sonya and Dirk!), a group of hot young things sit taking well paced sips from lavishly branded cocktails, while discreetly monitoring each new arrival. No, this was not some hot singles night but Jake and me, Jake's colleague Sandrine, her friend Sebastiene and his boyfriend Matthieu being uber at L'Etoile Marocaine.
They were all really nice and fortunately didn't mind speaking English all night! Sandrine is 30, all French chic and another lawyer in the Paris office of Jake's company. Sebastiene and I had a lot in common as he works at the Shiseido press office and funnily enough lived for a while in New York too (Jake got everyone excited by mentioning that I might be going back to New York, which I then had to play down as much as I could). But the real bloody find was Matthieu: he's 24 and works as a model. He's currently in an ad campaign for a new gay TV network in Paris called Pink TV (here is the link - he's the guy on the far right). To not put too fine a point on it, aside from the fact that he's a bit of a looker, he…is…ADORABLE! He listens so intenty and thinks that everything is amazing, like a baby fawn – all wide eyed and in awe of everything and everyone. At one point I think I suggested to Jake that we adopt him.
Sandrine pays for the bill on expenses (Jake told me later how much the bill came to. A word of warning. If you ever find yourself at that restaurant, unless you have a parachute stored under your shirt, you're going to have to confront the bill without crying). Then Sebastiene suggests that we go to some club called Le Insolite. Jake has always told me thus far that he isn't really into clubbing (he kinda clubbed himself out when he was younger) but out of all of us seems to be the most excited by the idea (I am actually desperate to go to a club, but I'm trying to be all blasé and French). So we all squash into the back of a cab and head off to Etienne Marcel.
Sebastiene tells me on the way that Le Insolite was, up until about three years ago, THE gay club to be seen in Paris but that since then it has kind of gone down hill a bit, so I'm wondering really why he suggested going. But we get there and he knows the doorwoman and we get in without paying, which as far as I'm concerned always makes the evening go a bit smoother. And there seems to be a cool crowd in residency.
Now silly-billies Parisians are not. They can be absurd and post-modern. They can even actually be clinically mad. But as I had previously understood it, they will rarely opt to conga around a village hall with a pair of flashing devil horns on their heads. Passing balloons between chests simply for the chance of rubbing boobies against someone is not a lifestyle choice in Paris. This Anglo / Franco anthropological disparity occurs to me at the very moment that Jake leans in and, with a bit of Mojito mint stuck between his teeth, drunkenly slurs "Are you up for a bit of a boogie?" Aside from the fact that he just used the word "boogie" as a descriptor for putting the moves down, I look at him uneasily and reply "I am. But Jake…we're not among our own."
Ha! I should have instantly banished that thought, for it was very quickly made clear to me that Paris is full of the demographic which includes those of us (raises hand) who just want to flail about like our elbows are on fire.
So with the exception of Sandrine, because she's a girl, after about half an hour of arriving and getting even more drunk us four boys all have our tops off. Big...drunk...gayers! Yay! Even though he was drunk Jake was really, really sweet and kept putting his arms around me when we were dancing. And because he's gorgeous and I'm incredibly shallow, inside I was all like "He's with me, everyone! Go me!" The DJ even plays the tune I am currently obsessed with. It's an old French tune called "Blue" by La Tour, that has recently started being played at clubs again. I've put it on some of the CD's I've been burning recently for my friends (with my beloved iBook) - have another listen. It's awesome!
Jake and I left the club at around 4.30am and headed back to the hotel, where the two of us order a snack and un bouteille de vin blanc. Then we sit on the bed and he gets some stuff out that he's obviously been mulling over. He tells me that he knows that he has been intense despite the fact that I have wanted to take things slow. He explains that since he broke up with his last boyfriend he has dated numerous guys, but they were either idiots or they were freaked out by him. Then he goes on to say that out of all of those guys I am the most gentle, kind, natural, unpretentious (poor deluded Jake!) person that he has met in quite some time and that was why he was so keen to spend quality time with me. I think I nearly cried! It means something, even in my drunken state, that he's trying to make me comfortable with the situation. Although I could go over the same stuff again I don't. It's been said. I'm not going to keep hammering the point home.
Despite the fact that we have only had a few hours sleep and we are really quite hungover we made ourselves get up at a not too unreasonable hour, freshened up and went out to get a hearty breakfast. "So what shall we do today?" asks Jake.
I actually really want to go to Pigalle and check out the gay sex shops but that doesn't seem like a very romantic thing to do. So instead I suggest that we go to the Musee Rodin in the Varenne. After all, a museum visit raises no "What's your game?" eyebrows. So off we trek. I've been to the Musee Rodin before and love it there, but Jake hadn't and didn't know much about Rodin either. So I take him inside first and prime him with an explanation of "The Kiss" and that despite the fact that it is Rodin's most famous piece, it was actually his least favorite.
After touring the house we step out into the Orangerie garden, amongst the rose bushes and sculptures and the two of us marvel at what can be achieved with a decent set of chisels. The scattered benches offer various clinch points around the huge garden and after a while artistic reflection on the essential beauty of the naked body gives way to romantic rumination, aided by the spirit of classical lovers and utter peace. Well, that and the burgeoning animal lust given off by the rippling male torsos!
After a while all the staring into each others eyes, smiling, kissing, talking in hushed voices and holding hands begins to really push the button for me. So I make a suggestion:
"Jake? Can we get naked in the bushes? Can we lacquer each other up with bronze shoe polish? Can we let life imitate art for a change?
But he just looks at me and smiles. I take that as a no. Damnit!
After the Musee Rodin Jake says that he wants to go up to the Sacre-Coeur cause I had been raving about it. So we head on up again. And I walk up all those steps, AGAIN! He agrees that the view is pretty damn spectacular. After that we have a walk around Montmartre. It is without doubt the most unabashedly romantic district of Paris. I was reminded of Before Sunset when Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke find the lurve! So we just mooch about peering into alleys, explore little streets and descend quiet stairways. We have some late lunch at yet another cute little French café.
Later on we went for a spot of retail therapy and I made Jake buy this FINE chocolate brown cashmere sweater from Agnes b, which I am fully intending to borrow at some point. After that it was back to the hotel for a cup of tea and to pick up our bags in time to get the Eurostar back to London. Because I was still quite hung over I slept most of the way back, so by the time we got into Waterloo I was feeling pretty human again.
The plan had been that I would go home when we got back to London, but after the romance of Paris I couldn't face the idea of my little room, so I went back to Jake's and we made supper and curled up in front of the TV.
When I got to work this morning I got the cutest text from him but I'm not going tell you what it said cause it's sure too make you nauseous. But still...aw!
Oh guess what! Le fags! From the moment I got on the train to Paris, to the moment I got back into London, I did not smoke ONE SINGLE CIGARETTE THE ENTIRE WEEKEND! Do you know what an achievement that is, not least because I was in Paris, where it is constitutionally required that you smoke! Now I just have to try and keep it up for the next, oh, sixty or seventy years.
Christopher once did not have the strength, but then he found it and stopped blogging. Many years later he's lost some of that strength and has since started blogging once more on a quest to get it back (or is that strength in, and of, itself?). He'll consider carrying people on his shoulders across water for money, or for free if they're brutally hot.
Monday, November 08, 2004
Friday, November 05, 2004
Honesty is the best policy
Jake and I went out for dinner last night to Axis at One Aldwych (my suggestion – one of my all time favorite restaurants).
About half way through dinner I go “Look Jake, there’s something that I have to tell you. And I want to tell you now, so that you don’t think I’m stringing you along or anything. And I want to tell you before we go to Paris. Just so there are no misunderstandings.”
He looks at me really seriously, and I guess he’s thinking that I’m going to give him the big brush off. “Ok. What’s wrong?”
I tell him all about the fact that there is a possibility that I could be going back to New York. I explain that I needed to come back to London to make me realise how good I had things there. I explain that nowhere has ever felt quite like home, the way that NY did. I tell him that the job is nowhere near in the bag yet, that I still have another interview to get through and that even after that there are still some hurdles in terms of visas and stuff. But ultimately, if I do get the job, then I will definitely be leaving.
And in his brilliant way, he just listens and doesn’t interrupt and takes it all in. “Ok. I understand better now why you need to take this slow. That’s ok. I’m glad you told me.”
I reiterate that it has nothing to do with him. I really like spending time with him and in many ways I think that he could be really great for me. But at the moment, where I am in my life, I just can’t commit to anything beyond what happens today and that I’ll totally understand if he wants to stop things now, before anyone’s feelings get any stronger.
And he is so sweet. He takes my hand and smiles and says “Whatever happens you’ve made a friend here.”
Then he looks serious again and says, “If you got to New York can I come and visit you?”
And I grin and say “Jake. Wherever I am in the world, you can always come and visit me!”
Again. I’m gonna say it again. I am the luckiest guy in the world to have so many beautiful, amazing, inspirational people in my life – Helen, Will, Vix, Drew, Wayne, Lindsay...to name but a few. I frikkin LOVE you guys! You mean the WORLD to me, And now Jake. How could I ever ask for more?
Check in on Monday for a full low down on my jaunt to gay Paris! Until then, HAVE A GREAT WEEKEND Y’ALL!
About half way through dinner I go “Look Jake, there’s something that I have to tell you. And I want to tell you now, so that you don’t think I’m stringing you along or anything. And I want to tell you before we go to Paris. Just so there are no misunderstandings.”
He looks at me really seriously, and I guess he’s thinking that I’m going to give him the big brush off. “Ok. What’s wrong?”
I tell him all about the fact that there is a possibility that I could be going back to New York. I explain that I needed to come back to London to make me realise how good I had things there. I explain that nowhere has ever felt quite like home, the way that NY did. I tell him that the job is nowhere near in the bag yet, that I still have another interview to get through and that even after that there are still some hurdles in terms of visas and stuff. But ultimately, if I do get the job, then I will definitely be leaving.
And in his brilliant way, he just listens and doesn’t interrupt and takes it all in. “Ok. I understand better now why you need to take this slow. That’s ok. I’m glad you told me.”
I reiterate that it has nothing to do with him. I really like spending time with him and in many ways I think that he could be really great for me. But at the moment, where I am in my life, I just can’t commit to anything beyond what happens today and that I’ll totally understand if he wants to stop things now, before anyone’s feelings get any stronger.
And he is so sweet. He takes my hand and smiles and says “Whatever happens you’ve made a friend here.”
Then he looks serious again and says, “If you got to New York can I come and visit you?”
And I grin and say “Jake. Wherever I am in the world, you can always come and visit me!”
Again. I’m gonna say it again. I am the luckiest guy in the world to have so many beautiful, amazing, inspirational people in my life – Helen, Will, Vix, Drew, Wayne, Lindsay...to name but a few. I frikkin LOVE you guys! You mean the WORLD to me, And now Jake. How could I ever ask for more?
Check in on Monday for a full low down on my jaunt to gay Paris! Until then, HAVE A GREAT WEEKEND Y’ALL!
Erin is my new best friend!
About three weeks ago I was lamenting the fact that ever since I moved back to London my life hasn't had quite the same amount of adventure and all round fabulousness that had in New York. And then, as if by magic, about a gazillion brilliant and exciting things all come along at once.
So I am sat at my desk and suddenly get a craving for a Starbucks, so I decided to run up to the one round the corner on Oxford Street. I get in the queue and after a few seconds realise that the woman infront of me is none other than the supermodel Erin O'Connor. Now I've worked with Erin quite a lot in the last couple of years - we spent two days together two years ago for a project she did for a car brand. Then I hired her for the launch photocall for London Fashion Week and then about two months ago we spent a day holed up in some studio in Islington for a photoshoot. So we are already pretty well acquainted.
So I tap her on the back and say hello and she is all like "Oh! Hi Chris! How are you?" So we start chatting and she asks if I want to sit with her to drink my coffee. Of course I'm like "Sure!" because who am I to say no, right? Work can wait for Erin O'Connor! So we sit down and she's really lovely. I ask her how things are going with Jamie (she's dating TV presenter Jamie Theakston) and she tells me that it's all good. And then she asks me about my love life, so I tell her about this great, cute guy that I met recently. And then I mention that he's taking me to Paris this weekend. "No way!" she exclaims. "I'm in Paris this weekend too! We should meet up."
So I explain that on Saturday I pretty much have the day to myself cause Jake is working, so that would be really cool. Maybe we could have lunch or something? So then we exchange cellphone numbers and agree that I'll give her a call on Saturday morning and we'll arrange a time to meet.
I'm sorry to be massively big headed but my life ROCKS right now! Seriously! So not only am I now being taken to Paris for the weekend by a gorgeous hunk to stay in a top hotel but I'm also having lunch with one of the most successful models in the world!!!
(Pinches self)
So I am sat at my desk and suddenly get a craving for a Starbucks, so I decided to run up to the one round the corner on Oxford Street. I get in the queue and after a few seconds realise that the woman infront of me is none other than the supermodel Erin O'Connor. Now I've worked with Erin quite a lot in the last couple of years - we spent two days together two years ago for a project she did for a car brand. Then I hired her for the launch photocall for London Fashion Week and then about two months ago we spent a day holed up in some studio in Islington for a photoshoot. So we are already pretty well acquainted.
So I tap her on the back and say hello and she is all like "Oh! Hi Chris! How are you?" So we start chatting and she asks if I want to sit with her to drink my coffee. Of course I'm like "Sure!" because who am I to say no, right? Work can wait for Erin O'Connor! So we sit down and she's really lovely. I ask her how things are going with Jamie (she's dating TV presenter Jamie Theakston) and she tells me that it's all good. And then she asks me about my love life, so I tell her about this great, cute guy that I met recently. And then I mention that he's taking me to Paris this weekend. "No way!" she exclaims. "I'm in Paris this weekend too! We should meet up."
So I explain that on Saturday I pretty much have the day to myself cause Jake is working, so that would be really cool. Maybe we could have lunch or something? So then we exchange cellphone numbers and agree that I'll give her a call on Saturday morning and we'll arrange a time to meet.
I'm sorry to be massively big headed but my life ROCKS right now! Seriously! So not only am I now being taken to Paris for the weekend by a gorgeous hunk to stay in a top hotel but I'm also having lunch with one of the most successful models in the world!!!
(Pinches self)
Look Where I'm Gonna Be Staying!!!
Look at those rooms!
Ok...I'm really excited now. If he hasn't booked the Suite Due de Crillon, then I'm really going to kick off!
I'm conjuring up all kinds of nasty situations. It's gonna be a gay porn version of Dangerous Liaisons - I will be like John Malkovitch and Jake will be Keanu Reeves.
Grrr!
Ok...I'm really excited now. If he hasn't booked the Suite Due de Crillon, then I'm really going to kick off!
I'm conjuring up all kinds of nasty situations. It's gonna be a gay porn version of Dangerous Liaisons - I will be like John Malkovitch and Jake will be Keanu Reeves.
Grrr!
Thursday, November 04, 2004
The Verdict
Ok - I have had about a million emails from a bunch of you, the main jist being that I am a cold hearted, ungrateful bugger - how many people get taken to Paris by some hot stud?
Katie, the wise woman, summed it up best.
"Wooo! How romantic! Bloody go and stop being a lamo. You do need to let him know that it is likely that you are going to be going to NYC, but in the mean time you would love to spend some time with him and have lots of fun together - why not? After all, he hasn't asked you to move in with him!"
Yet! He hasn't asked me to move in with him YET!
Ok, ok - I went and bought a Paris guidebook at lunch and am now quite excited about this little jaunt. So I'll shut up now.
I wonder if I'll meet Julie Delpy or Juliette Binoche? Hmmm...
Katie, the wise woman, summed it up best.
"Wooo! How romantic! Bloody go and stop being a lamo. You do need to let him know that it is likely that you are going to be going to NYC, but in the mean time you would love to spend some time with him and have lots of fun together - why not? After all, he hasn't asked you to move in with him!"
Yet! He hasn't asked me to move in with him YET!
Ok, ok - I went and bought a Paris guidebook at lunch and am now quite excited about this little jaunt. So I'll shut up now.
I wonder if I'll meet Julie Delpy or Juliette Binoche? Hmmm...
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
HOLY COW! (Arret!)
I feel like I'm going to be sick.
I get into work and I'm here literally five or ten minutes when this courier turns up with a package for me. I've only been here a week and am not expecting anything, so it's kind of unusual.
So I take the package and instantly I know it's from Jake, cause the address label has his firm's logo printed on it. I sit down and open it up and there is a note accompanying what looks like a plane ticket booklet. Deep breath. So first I open the note and all it reads is "Meet me at Waterloo, Friday, at 6pm. You can get out of work early, right?" Then the realisation of what this means starts to sink in. So I open the booklet and sure enough there it is. A Eurostar ticket to Paris.
I actually exclaimed "FUCK!" out loud, which pretty much grabbed the attention of everyone around me. So then I have to explain what has happened and all the girls just literally dissolve into puddles on the floor, obviously empathising with the romance of the situation.
I grabbed my phone and cigarettes and ran outside to call him.
"Jake! Are you insane?"
"I thought it would be a nice way to spend the weekend. You do want to come don't you?"
"Er..yes. Of course I'll come, but Jake? It's like SO big. I mean I thought we talked about taking things slow?"
Then he explained that he has a meeting on Saturday with some clients out at La Defense and that the hotel is paid for, for the whole weekend. So all he did was buy an extra ticket, which he assured me that he didn't pay for it himself, that he put it down to expenses (which is incredibly bad because I got caught out myself once doing something similar when I was a PR nipper and really got my fingers burned!)
So my initial shock was lessened somewhat. But I'm still freaked out! Isn't it funny - the idea of meeting some incredibly sexy, kind, genuine, thoughtful man who whisks you away to Paris for a romantic weekend together, well, it's the stuff of fairytales isn't it? But I guess it's testament to the fact that I have grown up a lot recently, that I'm actually standing back and looking at the situation objectively. And I have reiterated to him now a few times that it is really important to me to take things slow and I still haven't told him about the job thing, because I really don't know what the score is there. But now I think that I may have to tell him.
But do I tell him now, or do I tell him at the weekend, and possibly spoil things? I think I'm going to have to tell him now, which I really don't want to do, because I don't want to be jumping the gun (even though I've told everyone who reads this!)
Ok...calm, calm, calm.
I guess I'd better go out at lunchtime and buy a beret.
or maybe that should be...
Je suppose que je dois sortir a l'heure du dejeuner et achete un beret.
I get into work and I'm here literally five or ten minutes when this courier turns up with a package for me. I've only been here a week and am not expecting anything, so it's kind of unusual.
So I take the package and instantly I know it's from Jake, cause the address label has his firm's logo printed on it. I sit down and open it up and there is a note accompanying what looks like a plane ticket booklet. Deep breath. So first I open the note and all it reads is "Meet me at Waterloo, Friday, at 6pm. You can get out of work early, right?" Then the realisation of what this means starts to sink in. So I open the booklet and sure enough there it is. A Eurostar ticket to Paris.
I actually exclaimed "FUCK!" out loud, which pretty much grabbed the attention of everyone around me. So then I have to explain what has happened and all the girls just literally dissolve into puddles on the floor, obviously empathising with the romance of the situation.
I grabbed my phone and cigarettes and ran outside to call him.
"Jake! Are you insane?"
"I thought it would be a nice way to spend the weekend. You do want to come don't you?"
"Er..yes. Of course I'll come, but Jake? It's like SO big. I mean I thought we talked about taking things slow?"
Then he explained that he has a meeting on Saturday with some clients out at La Defense and that the hotel is paid for, for the whole weekend. So all he did was buy an extra ticket, which he assured me that he didn't pay for it himself, that he put it down to expenses (which is incredibly bad because I got caught out myself once doing something similar when I was a PR nipper and really got my fingers burned!)
So my initial shock was lessened somewhat. But I'm still freaked out! Isn't it funny - the idea of meeting some incredibly sexy, kind, genuine, thoughtful man who whisks you away to Paris for a romantic weekend together, well, it's the stuff of fairytales isn't it? But I guess it's testament to the fact that I have grown up a lot recently, that I'm actually standing back and looking at the situation objectively. And I have reiterated to him now a few times that it is really important to me to take things slow and I still haven't told him about the job thing, because I really don't know what the score is there. But now I think that I may have to tell him.
But do I tell him now, or do I tell him at the weekend, and possibly spoil things? I think I'm going to have to tell him now, which I really don't want to do, because I don't want to be jumping the gun (even though I've told everyone who reads this!)
Ok...calm, calm, calm.
I guess I'd better go out at lunchtime and buy a beret.
or maybe that should be...
Je suppose que je dois sortir a l'heure du dejeuner et achete un beret.
I Love Pussy
So last night I was just sat in the living room minding my own business. Fire was roaring away, Little Britain was on TV and I was contendly nursing a cup of tea.
Then the cutest cat in the world saunters into the room, jumps up on the sofa and starts rubbing it's head against my chest. Is it possible to die from cuteness? Seriously - I'm actually more of a dog person, but all it takes is for someone or something to show me the slightest affection and I MELT!
Turns out that Vix found the cat meowing sadly outside and thought that she would bring it into the flat for some milk and lovin!
So we played with kitty for a while. We contemplated wheter it was a he or a she. I eventually decided to found out for sure by performing a little examination. Definitely a she. I christen her "Celia".
Then Vix says that she supposes we should put her back outside. NOOOOOOO!!! Much crying, feet stamping and histrionics on my part. So Vix sits me down and gently explains to me why it is oh so wrong to steal someone else's pets. Well she should have thought of that before she bought the bloody thing into the flat!
So I decide to be the man, scoop Celia up and take her outside for a final farewell.
"Goodbye Celia. It's time for us to part. We had good times and I'll always remember them fondly. But now you must go home. Farewell."
And she just sits there and meows. Eventually it becomes clear that I'm just going to have to walk away. It was the same feeling as when you take someone to the airport and you keep hanging around until you see them go behind the screen in departures.
And then half an hour later I looked out of the window to see if she is still there - AND SHE IS!!! And she looks up at me like I have comitted an injustice on a massive scale.
Stupid cats. Stupid Vix. I wonder if I could hide her in my bedroom (the cat dumbass, not Vix!)
Then the cutest cat in the world saunters into the room, jumps up on the sofa and starts rubbing it's head against my chest. Is it possible to die from cuteness? Seriously - I'm actually more of a dog person, but all it takes is for someone or something to show me the slightest affection and I MELT!
Turns out that Vix found the cat meowing sadly outside and thought that she would bring it into the flat for some milk and lovin!
So we played with kitty for a while. We contemplated wheter it was a he or a she. I eventually decided to found out for sure by performing a little examination. Definitely a she. I christen her "Celia".
Then Vix says that she supposes we should put her back outside. NOOOOOOO!!! Much crying, feet stamping and histrionics on my part. So Vix sits me down and gently explains to me why it is oh so wrong to steal someone else's pets. Well she should have thought of that before she bought the bloody thing into the flat!
So I decide to be the man, scoop Celia up and take her outside for a final farewell.
"Goodbye Celia. It's time for us to part. We had good times and I'll always remember them fondly. But now you must go home. Farewell."
And she just sits there and meows. Eventually it becomes clear that I'm just going to have to walk away. It was the same feeling as when you take someone to the airport and you keep hanging around until you see them go behind the screen in departures.
And then half an hour later I looked out of the window to see if she is still there - AND SHE IS!!! And she looks up at me like I have comitted an injustice on a massive scale.
Stupid cats. Stupid Vix. I wonder if I could hide her in my bedroom (the cat dumbass, not Vix!)
Getting to know faith
I used to live in West Hampstead and after seven years of riding it twice a day I knew the Jubilee Line like the back of my hand. Every station, how long it took it took between the stops, where to stand on the station to get the best seat. In fact before I moved to NYC I pretty much had the whole of the tube system etched onto my brain.
Then of course, I moved to NYC and had to learn a whole different system, completely different from the one in London. For a start the subway runs all day and night, but there are also express trains, so if you are going from uptown to downtown you can just jump on one train and skip all those annoying stops in-between. Oh and the cars are air conditioned which is great in the summer. The confusing thing with the NYC subway is that all the lines are named with numbers – 1,3, 9, 7, A, C, E. I like that our underground has names.
My job interview was in St John’s Wood, which was unusual because the company is actually off Oxford Street. But I assumed that we were meeting there because Alex and Raoul wanted to take me out for dinner. But it turns out that it was only there because Raoul’s wife is having another baby and he was going to be at the hospital in St John’s Wood prior to my interview.
Because I no longer seem to have the tube map in my head quite as clearly as I used to have I completely misjudged how long it would take me to get there. I left at 5.15pm to meet them at 6pm. It took me fifteen minutes. So for half and hour I was waiting around on a busy high street, freezing my ass off, trying to calm my nerves by listening to soothing classical music on my iPod.
Now usually I don’t get nervous about job interviews. But I REALLY want this job. So bad that I can taste it. Alex turns up at 6pm on the dot and we sit down while we are waiting for Raoul and have a little catch up.
Now on my second interview Alex mentioned a particular brand to me that the agency will have as a client in NYC. And because the world is so bloody small it turns out that the client on that brand is no other than someone I knew very, very well in NYC. When everything happened in March that friend was a pillar of strength. But then very suddenly he turned his back on me. At the time I was very angry with him for this. But now I understand how hard it must have been. And who am I to judge anyway, right.
Nonetheless, the two of us don’t speak to each other anymore and I know he has a strong opinion on my health and where I should be in the world. It’s a point of view that I absolutely don’t subscribe to, but I guess we’re all allowed our opinions. That said, I had to tell Alex that there could be a potential issue there – that if they gave me the job and I ended up having to work with this person, it might be an issue.
Alex went to NYC last week and told me that she was going to speak to this person about me to see what they had to say. And to start with I convinced myself that it was all over. That the person would spill the beans and scupper any chance that I might have of getting this thing. But then I did something I find very hard to do. I let the thought go and put faith in it being ok. To really believe that it would be ok. And if it wasn’t – well I would deal with that if and when it happened.
Then last week they call me and say that they want to see me again. And I was so pleased. So back to Alex and I talking. Alex tells me that she did meet with the old friend, but that I had made such a good impression previously at my other interviews, that she didn’t think that it was appropriate to bring it up. As far as she was concerned she thought I was great, professionally experienced and very clearly up for the job. And the non-professional personal point of view of someone else wasn’t of interest to her. Awesome!
Then Raoul turns up and we go off to some café. Raoul is a tough cookie who really knows his stuff. He throws some very direct, blunt, but important questions to me and I think that I handle and respond to them well.
So in a nutshell, this is the job, should I get it…
Alex and I would essentially be starting up a new business – an arm of the London agency, in New York. Together we would spend the month of December, in London, creating and then fine-tuning a business plan for the new NYC office for 2005 – how we want the agency to look, feel, what the client offer is, what our strategy will be for winning business, what we want the agency turnover to be, who we want to work for.
This would be different to anything I have worked on and would challenge me enormously. But at the same time, without exception, it is the most exciting opportunity that has ever come my way. And I know I can do it. That’s the thing with me – when I put my mind to something I make great things happen. To be part of something that is in it’s embryonic stage, to nurture and watch it grow. And the best bit is that, with Alex, I would be the boss. I could shape it in all the ways that I think it should be shaped. To be part of that is a once in lifetime opportunity.
We end up talking about so many things that I won’t bore you with here, but the crux of it is that at the end of two hours of discussions Raoul laid it on the line. He told me that he thought I had amazing experience, that my knowledge of the NYC market place was really invaluable and that for the most part he thought that I would be a valuable asset. The last step is that I have to meet the finance director of the company, so that I can explain my thoughts, top line, on what needs to be done to make the company a success. Easy - can do that standing on my head.
And then this morning I got an email reiterating that they think I'm great and that providing everything is ok in the meeting next week, they will want me to start in as soon as three weeks time. We have agreed a salary figure (a very nice one!) and we’re talking about a relocation allowance. And I don’t want to jinx it, but (and I’m going to knock on wood again!) Alex and I could be on a plane on the 2nd of January. And NYC would once again be my home.
I know now that I needed to come back to London to make me realise what is important to me. Sometimes you need to come home, physically and spiritually, to remind you of all the things in life that are great and good. It took coming home to make me realise that nothing here is going anywhere. And that my friends will always be here. So with that knowledge safe in my back pocket I want to be back in New York, with all the craziness and laughter and good friends that I know it can give me.
Faith is a hard concept to grasp. And one of the things I find hardest to accept is that there are some things that I am not in control of. At the moment all I can do is put faith in the fact that I can present myself well enough for them to give me this job. And then, if I get it, I work massively hard to make all the other stuff happen.
My single mindedness is my greatest gift. But at the same time it’s my Achilles heel. Because there are still some things that you can’t make happen – matters of the heart for example. And to date one thing that I have never seriously really invested in is my career and I think now is the time to do it. I’m going to be ruthless about it. And I’m going to put faith in the fact that wonderful things are going to happen because of it.
And if this one doesn’t work out. Then I’m going to have faith that there will be other opportunities. Loads and loads of them. Cause you know the worst thing that can happen is that I never get a job I want and my Mum has to teach me to be a hairdresser. And I think I’d make a GREAT hairdresser!
So this year I have learned that it’s good to be single minded and efficiently focussed, but sometimes you need to put things aside and just believe that if things are meant to be, then they are meant to be.
I’m reminded of that billboard I saw a few weeks ago, that I wrote about here. Maybe it was a sign? I don’t know if I believe in signs, but again…watch this space!!!
Life really rocks sometimes, don’t it?
Then of course, I moved to NYC and had to learn a whole different system, completely different from the one in London. For a start the subway runs all day and night, but there are also express trains, so if you are going from uptown to downtown you can just jump on one train and skip all those annoying stops in-between. Oh and the cars are air conditioned which is great in the summer. The confusing thing with the NYC subway is that all the lines are named with numbers – 1,3, 9, 7, A, C, E. I like that our underground has names.
My job interview was in St John’s Wood, which was unusual because the company is actually off Oxford Street. But I assumed that we were meeting there because Alex and Raoul wanted to take me out for dinner. But it turns out that it was only there because Raoul’s wife is having another baby and he was going to be at the hospital in St John’s Wood prior to my interview.
Because I no longer seem to have the tube map in my head quite as clearly as I used to have I completely misjudged how long it would take me to get there. I left at 5.15pm to meet them at 6pm. It took me fifteen minutes. So for half and hour I was waiting around on a busy high street, freezing my ass off, trying to calm my nerves by listening to soothing classical music on my iPod.
Now usually I don’t get nervous about job interviews. But I REALLY want this job. So bad that I can taste it. Alex turns up at 6pm on the dot and we sit down while we are waiting for Raoul and have a little catch up.
Now on my second interview Alex mentioned a particular brand to me that the agency will have as a client in NYC. And because the world is so bloody small it turns out that the client on that brand is no other than someone I knew very, very well in NYC. When everything happened in March that friend was a pillar of strength. But then very suddenly he turned his back on me. At the time I was very angry with him for this. But now I understand how hard it must have been. And who am I to judge anyway, right.
Nonetheless, the two of us don’t speak to each other anymore and I know he has a strong opinion on my health and where I should be in the world. It’s a point of view that I absolutely don’t subscribe to, but I guess we’re all allowed our opinions. That said, I had to tell Alex that there could be a potential issue there – that if they gave me the job and I ended up having to work with this person, it might be an issue.
Alex went to NYC last week and told me that she was going to speak to this person about me to see what they had to say. And to start with I convinced myself that it was all over. That the person would spill the beans and scupper any chance that I might have of getting this thing. But then I did something I find very hard to do. I let the thought go and put faith in it being ok. To really believe that it would be ok. And if it wasn’t – well I would deal with that if and when it happened.
Then last week they call me and say that they want to see me again. And I was so pleased. So back to Alex and I talking. Alex tells me that she did meet with the old friend, but that I had made such a good impression previously at my other interviews, that she didn’t think that it was appropriate to bring it up. As far as she was concerned she thought I was great, professionally experienced and very clearly up for the job. And the non-professional personal point of view of someone else wasn’t of interest to her. Awesome!
Then Raoul turns up and we go off to some café. Raoul is a tough cookie who really knows his stuff. He throws some very direct, blunt, but important questions to me and I think that I handle and respond to them well.
So in a nutshell, this is the job, should I get it…
Alex and I would essentially be starting up a new business – an arm of the London agency, in New York. Together we would spend the month of December, in London, creating and then fine-tuning a business plan for the new NYC office for 2005 – how we want the agency to look, feel, what the client offer is, what our strategy will be for winning business, what we want the agency turnover to be, who we want to work for.
This would be different to anything I have worked on and would challenge me enormously. But at the same time, without exception, it is the most exciting opportunity that has ever come my way. And I know I can do it. That’s the thing with me – when I put my mind to something I make great things happen. To be part of something that is in it’s embryonic stage, to nurture and watch it grow. And the best bit is that, with Alex, I would be the boss. I could shape it in all the ways that I think it should be shaped. To be part of that is a once in lifetime opportunity.
We end up talking about so many things that I won’t bore you with here, but the crux of it is that at the end of two hours of discussions Raoul laid it on the line. He told me that he thought I had amazing experience, that my knowledge of the NYC market place was really invaluable and that for the most part he thought that I would be a valuable asset. The last step is that I have to meet the finance director of the company, so that I can explain my thoughts, top line, on what needs to be done to make the company a success. Easy - can do that standing on my head.
And then this morning I got an email reiterating that they think I'm great and that providing everything is ok in the meeting next week, they will want me to start in as soon as three weeks time. We have agreed a salary figure (a very nice one!) and we’re talking about a relocation allowance. And I don’t want to jinx it, but (and I’m going to knock on wood again!) Alex and I could be on a plane on the 2nd of January. And NYC would once again be my home.
I know now that I needed to come back to London to make me realise what is important to me. Sometimes you need to come home, physically and spiritually, to remind you of all the things in life that are great and good. It took coming home to make me realise that nothing here is going anywhere. And that my friends will always be here. So with that knowledge safe in my back pocket I want to be back in New York, with all the craziness and laughter and good friends that I know it can give me.
Faith is a hard concept to grasp. And one of the things I find hardest to accept is that there are some things that I am not in control of. At the moment all I can do is put faith in the fact that I can present myself well enough for them to give me this job. And then, if I get it, I work massively hard to make all the other stuff happen.
My single mindedness is my greatest gift. But at the same time it’s my Achilles heel. Because there are still some things that you can’t make happen – matters of the heart for example. And to date one thing that I have never seriously really invested in is my career and I think now is the time to do it. I’m going to be ruthless about it. And I’m going to put faith in the fact that wonderful things are going to happen because of it.
And if this one doesn’t work out. Then I’m going to have faith that there will be other opportunities. Loads and loads of them. Cause you know the worst thing that can happen is that I never get a job I want and my Mum has to teach me to be a hairdresser. And I think I’d make a GREAT hairdresser!
So this year I have learned that it’s good to be single minded and efficiently focussed, but sometimes you need to put things aside and just believe that if things are meant to be, then they are meant to be.
I’m reminded of that billboard I saw a few weeks ago, that I wrote about here. Maybe it was a sign? I don’t know if I believe in signs, but again…watch this space!!!
Life really rocks sometimes, don’t it?
Monday, November 01, 2004
Stop Calling Me!!! (but don't completely stop!)
Email from Jake on Friday (I have no doubt that he’d kill me if he knew that I was sharing this kinda stuff with the world, but I tell you guys everything else, so...)
“I just wanted you to know, even though it's only been a week (today is our anniversary!), I really like you and I'm sat here thinking about you and it's making me smile. I know that's a bit full on, but if you feel like you want to say something then you say it. Have a good evening my sexy PR man.”
This should fill me with warm fuzzies and I guess in a way it does. I mean it’s really awesome that someone can feel that way about me in such a short space of time. But at the same time I'm a little like “Whoa boy! Whoa! Down!”
Katie (Hi Katie – you wanted to be mentioned in my blog so here you go!) gave me some excellent advice. “That is possibly the most adorable thing! And you know what, I believe him. Look, fucking live for the moment, don’t think too much coz guess what? You could pop ya clogs tomorrow. But stick to one small rule. It is OK for you to like him back, but play slightly hard to get, not as a head fuck but in the fun way. Flirty is the best part. As my dear step mum, Cathy, said '”Darling run and they follow. Follow and they run”
On Saturday afternoon I took Drew’s younger sister Amber out to the pub for drinks. She moved to London from New Zealand shortly before Drew moved back and is still getting used to the craziness that is London. I met her in Covent Garden and she had just bought a rather heavy hoover and I was the perfect gentlemen by throwing it over my shoulder and lugging it through the crowd.
Because she is a kiwi I thought it would be amusing to take Amber to the Walkabout Bar, but she soon pointed out that there was a flaw in my plan, and that the Walkabout Bar is actually for Australians. Anyway, she got chatted up at the bar, so I think she was happy with my choice.
So Kate had already called me earlier to ask me if Amber and I fancied going to this night that she was DJ-ing at in Kings Cross – a free ticket only party that promised to be good fun. Jake and I had originally had dinner plans, but that had fallen through, so instead we had planned to stay in and watch movies. But seeming that I haven’t really seen Kate or the Scoobie’s in a while I thought that it seemed like a better option, so I called Jake and left a message that I was going to go and would he like to come as well?
During my catch up with Amber he calls me no less than four times in the space of an hour. First to say that he’s not coming, but that it’s cool for me to go (Good, cause I was going to anyway!) Then he calls me again to say that actually he might come after all. Then he calls again about ten minutes later to say that he might come into Covent Garden. And then again to say that actually he’s not – he’s going to go to the gym. If there’s one thing that annoys me it’s people who can’t make up their mind! Just pick something and do it! Anyway – by the last call I was starting to lose my rag with him. I answered the phone with a stern "What?!" and he was all like "Are you getting pissy with me?" I mean damn he’s cute and hot and nice as pie but...oh but nothing.
So I go back home and have a nap and then get changed to go and meet Kate and Joe at some promoters house near to the club. On the way he calls me yet again to say that he isn’t going to come. Then at the house he calls me again to say that he is bored and is now considering it again. He’ll call me later when he makes up his mind. Argh!!!!
We all pile down to the club and it’s a really nice space, quite small and the guys have done a great job of making it look like a Halloween dungeon. Joe is dressed as a stylish zombie. Me? Well I kinda forgot that the evening was themed and just wore cargos and my new Andrew Ibi sweatshirt. Joe pacifies me by saying that I could be a homicidal maniac because they could look like anyone. Oh – and Lorna wears THE most inspired outfit…a dress made from cereal boxes, with blood splattered all her over (Serial killer – geddit?)
No one really turns up at the party so I guess officially the night was a failure. But we all had a good time, got drunk and danced our asses off to a great set courtesy of Kate.
At about 2.30am Jake calls me to see if I am still at the club and wants to know if I fancy coming back to his to keep him company. Things are really starting to slow down, so I decide to make my exit and jump into a cab to go over to his. I’m a bit of a drunken mess by the time I get to Blackfriars and am not much good for anything or anyone. I fall asleep fully clothed on the bed.
Lounge around in bed for a few hours in the morning and he's really sweet and I quickly forgive him for being a ditherer on a grand scale (without giving too much away, I would just like to share with you that the boy has a body that would put Marcus Schenkenberg to shame. Not a six pack - we're talking an eight pack. I do feel slightly self conscious when I compare myself. I mean there is just no way that I can compete! Some people really luck out in the genes stakes)
We get up properly around lunchtime and mooch off for a walk (gorgeous day!) and then get some late brunch at some brasserie near to the Oxo Tower. We have a really nice chat about all kinds of stuff, but I kind of spoil the mood slightly I think by reiterating something that I had already hinted at a few days before. The need for me to take things slow.
Cause the thing is, there is something that I haven’t told him yet. Tonight I am being taken out for dinner by a couple of people from this company that headhunted me for a potential job working in their brand new New York office. The gig is definitely not in the bag yet, although I am quite hopeful. I would go back to New York in a heartbeat and if I (knock on wood) get the job then it could even be as early as January (two months away!!)
I’m not going to tell him this yet. It’s really early days between us and I and if it comes to the crunch I know that I’m going to pick NYC over him. But because I don’t know I’m just gonna ride it out for a bit and see what happens. Isn’t it typical that two great “opportunities” come along at once and that you are forced to make a decision.
There is of course every chance that next week Jake will drop me and I won’t get the job in NYC.
In which case I will be setting my sights of my newest potential venture – celebrity dating. I have decided that I would make a really great “kept” boyfriend. I guess I should start saving up for my membership to Chinawhite.
“I just wanted you to know, even though it's only been a week (today is our anniversary!), I really like you and I'm sat here thinking about you and it's making me smile. I know that's a bit full on, but if you feel like you want to say something then you say it. Have a good evening my sexy PR man.”
This should fill me with warm fuzzies and I guess in a way it does. I mean it’s really awesome that someone can feel that way about me in such a short space of time. But at the same time I'm a little like “Whoa boy! Whoa! Down!”
Katie (Hi Katie – you wanted to be mentioned in my blog so here you go!) gave me some excellent advice. “That is possibly the most adorable thing! And you know what, I believe him. Look, fucking live for the moment, don’t think too much coz guess what? You could pop ya clogs tomorrow. But stick to one small rule. It is OK for you to like him back, but play slightly hard to get, not as a head fuck but in the fun way. Flirty is the best part. As my dear step mum, Cathy, said '”Darling run and they follow. Follow and they run”
On Saturday afternoon I took Drew’s younger sister Amber out to the pub for drinks. She moved to London from New Zealand shortly before Drew moved back and is still getting used to the craziness that is London. I met her in Covent Garden and she had just bought a rather heavy hoover and I was the perfect gentlemen by throwing it over my shoulder and lugging it through the crowd.
Because she is a kiwi I thought it would be amusing to take Amber to the Walkabout Bar, but she soon pointed out that there was a flaw in my plan, and that the Walkabout Bar is actually for Australians. Anyway, she got chatted up at the bar, so I think she was happy with my choice.
So Kate had already called me earlier to ask me if Amber and I fancied going to this night that she was DJ-ing at in Kings Cross – a free ticket only party that promised to be good fun. Jake and I had originally had dinner plans, but that had fallen through, so instead we had planned to stay in and watch movies. But seeming that I haven’t really seen Kate or the Scoobie’s in a while I thought that it seemed like a better option, so I called Jake and left a message that I was going to go and would he like to come as well?
During my catch up with Amber he calls me no less than four times in the space of an hour. First to say that he’s not coming, but that it’s cool for me to go (Good, cause I was going to anyway!) Then he calls me again to say that actually he might come after all. Then he calls again about ten minutes later to say that he might come into Covent Garden. And then again to say that actually he’s not – he’s going to go to the gym. If there’s one thing that annoys me it’s people who can’t make up their mind! Just pick something and do it! Anyway – by the last call I was starting to lose my rag with him. I answered the phone with a stern "What?!" and he was all like "Are you getting pissy with me?" I mean damn he’s cute and hot and nice as pie but...oh but nothing.
So I go back home and have a nap and then get changed to go and meet Kate and Joe at some promoters house near to the club. On the way he calls me yet again to say that he isn’t going to come. Then at the house he calls me again to say that he is bored and is now considering it again. He’ll call me later when he makes up his mind. Argh!!!!
We all pile down to the club and it’s a really nice space, quite small and the guys have done a great job of making it look like a Halloween dungeon. Joe is dressed as a stylish zombie. Me? Well I kinda forgot that the evening was themed and just wore cargos and my new Andrew Ibi sweatshirt. Joe pacifies me by saying that I could be a homicidal maniac because they could look like anyone. Oh – and Lorna wears THE most inspired outfit…a dress made from cereal boxes, with blood splattered all her over (Serial killer – geddit?)
No one really turns up at the party so I guess officially the night was a failure. But we all had a good time, got drunk and danced our asses off to a great set courtesy of Kate.
At about 2.30am Jake calls me to see if I am still at the club and wants to know if I fancy coming back to his to keep him company. Things are really starting to slow down, so I decide to make my exit and jump into a cab to go over to his. I’m a bit of a drunken mess by the time I get to Blackfriars and am not much good for anything or anyone. I fall asleep fully clothed on the bed.
Lounge around in bed for a few hours in the morning and he's really sweet and I quickly forgive him for being a ditherer on a grand scale (without giving too much away, I would just like to share with you that the boy has a body that would put Marcus Schenkenberg to shame. Not a six pack - we're talking an eight pack. I do feel slightly self conscious when I compare myself. I mean there is just no way that I can compete! Some people really luck out in the genes stakes)
We get up properly around lunchtime and mooch off for a walk (gorgeous day!) and then get some late brunch at some brasserie near to the Oxo Tower. We have a really nice chat about all kinds of stuff, but I kind of spoil the mood slightly I think by reiterating something that I had already hinted at a few days before. The need for me to take things slow.
Cause the thing is, there is something that I haven’t told him yet. Tonight I am being taken out for dinner by a couple of people from this company that headhunted me for a potential job working in their brand new New York office. The gig is definitely not in the bag yet, although I am quite hopeful. I would go back to New York in a heartbeat and if I (knock on wood) get the job then it could even be as early as January (two months away!!)
I’m not going to tell him this yet. It’s really early days between us and I and if it comes to the crunch I know that I’m going to pick NYC over him. But because I don’t know I’m just gonna ride it out for a bit and see what happens. Isn’t it typical that two great “opportunities” come along at once and that you are forced to make a decision.
There is of course every chance that next week Jake will drop me and I won’t get the job in NYC.
In which case I will be setting my sights of my newest potential venture – celebrity dating. I have decided that I would make a really great “kept” boyfriend. I guess I should start saving up for my membership to Chinawhite.
I must be a nice person, because...
When I was younger my parents really disapproved of kids coming to the door on Halloween, trick or treating. Halloween in England isn't quite the same institution that it is in the US. I remember a few years ago there was this scare about people giving kids apples laced with razor blades. Only in England. People can be so bloody miserable in this country, that they feel nothing about maiming little kiddies. Infact, maybe I'm wrong, but it's probably written into the British constitution that maiming kids on Halloween is actively encouraged.
I am one of these people that gets a real kick from publicly displaying that I am for the most part a happy person. This probably sounds really odd - I love it when I'm on the tube in the morning on my way to work, surrounded by a bunch of people who have yet to kickstart themselves with an IV of v.strong coffee, and something comes to mind that is so funny (Joe dancing to Thriller last night) that I actually laugh out loud and grin uncontrollably. I'm not being immodest (well yeah I am), but I know (from being told) that I have a really good smile. And occasionally, when I have that kind of outburst I catch other people in the carriage smiling back at me. Yeah - they're probably thinking that I'm a bit retarded (because they are British and cynical) but it can't be a bad thing that I made anyone smile, for whatever reason! I guess that's why I'm not a typical Englishman.
Earlier I went to the off license to buy a bottle of wine for an evening spent infront of the TV watching The X Factor (LOVE LOVE LOVE Sharon Osborne!) and on the way back I was suddenly surrounded by about twelve six or seven year old boys and girls wearing witches and wizards outfits. And maybe it's just cause I'm a big old softie, but I was just overcome by the cuteness! They were so LITTLE!!! And sweet! And the way that they went "Trick or treat!?" and the fact that I didn't have anything to give them except for wine - well, it just broke ma' heart!
So despite the fact that I had been trained as a youngster to shun kids asking for candy ("It's a form of begging!" my Father informed me) I turned around, walked back to the store and bought a whole bunch of Haribo's and other candy, should any other little witches and wizards turn up at my door tonight. The chances of this happening are actually quite slim, cause we're on the second floor. But you never know!
I am one of these people that gets a real kick from publicly displaying that I am for the most part a happy person. This probably sounds really odd - I love it when I'm on the tube in the morning on my way to work, surrounded by a bunch of people who have yet to kickstart themselves with an IV of v.strong coffee, and something comes to mind that is so funny (Joe dancing to Thriller last night) that I actually laugh out loud and grin uncontrollably. I'm not being immodest (well yeah I am), but I know (from being told) that I have a really good smile. And occasionally, when I have that kind of outburst I catch other people in the carriage smiling back at me. Yeah - they're probably thinking that I'm a bit retarded (because they are British and cynical) but it can't be a bad thing that I made anyone smile, for whatever reason! I guess that's why I'm not a typical Englishman.
Earlier I went to the off license to buy a bottle of wine for an evening spent infront of the TV watching The X Factor (LOVE LOVE LOVE Sharon Osborne!) and on the way back I was suddenly surrounded by about twelve six or seven year old boys and girls wearing witches and wizards outfits. And maybe it's just cause I'm a big old softie, but I was just overcome by the cuteness! They were so LITTLE!!! And sweet! And the way that they went "Trick or treat!?" and the fact that I didn't have anything to give them except for wine - well, it just broke ma' heart!
So despite the fact that I had been trained as a youngster to shun kids asking for candy ("It's a form of begging!" my Father informed me) I turned around, walked back to the store and bought a whole bunch of Haribo's and other candy, should any other little witches and wizards turn up at my door tonight. The chances of this happening are actually quite slim, cause we're on the second floor. But you never know!
Saturday, October 30, 2004
Bruiser!
Last night my friend Tyler and I went to Kazbar in Clapham. Got quite drunk (obviously).
Before we retire for the evening we decide to have one more for the road and mooch up to The Two Brewers. So we're just walking along the street and Tyler puts his hand in my back pocket. No hidden meaning there...he's just being friendly.
Then behind us these three guys start yelling "Oi! You fucking poofs!"
With my time in NYC aside, I have lived in London for over eight years now and I have never been accosted on the street which is quite incredible really because I've made out pretty intensely with guys in doorways and the like all OVER town. So the fact that we are getting hassled simply because Tyler has is hand in my back pocket is really something.
Now I am a lover not a fighter, but Tyler is a different matter. He's an East End boy, not at all gay looking (he's a bit of a rough diamond) and hard as fuck. So I instantly know we're in for trouble. Tyler turns around and goes right up to the guys, like right up in their faces and starts yelling "What's your fucking problem?" A big exchange of words follows and things start to get a bit heated. People walking by are speding up and then looking back over their shoulders. So I decide to step in and grab Tyler's arm to lead him away. "C'mon Tyler. It's not worth it"
And then one of the other guys just lunges at me so hard that I am knocked to the floor. Tyler then launches himself at the guy who pushed me and gets him in a head lock. Then the other two guys are on Tyler and it's a MESS.
Fortunately these other two guys who are walking past pull the two guys away and I grab Tyler. It all happens so fast. And there's some more shouting and stuff. And then Tyler and I just LEG IT!!! I don't think I have ever run so fast! We run down this side road off the high street and into a garage area to catch our breath. And then it must be the adrenaline and stuff, because we both start laughing - so hard that we can barely talk and tears are literally running down our faces!
So I was in a fight! Go me! I do have a rather nice bruise forming on my ass! I think I might start a Clapham South Fight Club.
Got home and drunk dialed practically all my friends to tell them about my right of passage! And almost no one was in!
Before we retire for the evening we decide to have one more for the road and mooch up to The Two Brewers. So we're just walking along the street and Tyler puts his hand in my back pocket. No hidden meaning there...he's just being friendly.
Then behind us these three guys start yelling "Oi! You fucking poofs!"
With my time in NYC aside, I have lived in London for over eight years now and I have never been accosted on the street which is quite incredible really because I've made out pretty intensely with guys in doorways and the like all OVER town. So the fact that we are getting hassled simply because Tyler has is hand in my back pocket is really something.
Now I am a lover not a fighter, but Tyler is a different matter. He's an East End boy, not at all gay looking (he's a bit of a rough diamond) and hard as fuck. So I instantly know we're in for trouble. Tyler turns around and goes right up to the guys, like right up in their faces and starts yelling "What's your fucking problem?" A big exchange of words follows and things start to get a bit heated. People walking by are speding up and then looking back over their shoulders. So I decide to step in and grab Tyler's arm to lead him away. "C'mon Tyler. It's not worth it"
And then one of the other guys just lunges at me so hard that I am knocked to the floor. Tyler then launches himself at the guy who pushed me and gets him in a head lock. Then the other two guys are on Tyler and it's a MESS.
Fortunately these other two guys who are walking past pull the two guys away and I grab Tyler. It all happens so fast. And there's some more shouting and stuff. And then Tyler and I just LEG IT!!! I don't think I have ever run so fast! We run down this side road off the high street and into a garage area to catch our breath. And then it must be the adrenaline and stuff, because we both start laughing - so hard that we can barely talk and tears are literally running down our faces!
So I was in a fight! Go me! I do have a rather nice bruise forming on my ass! I think I might start a Clapham South Fight Club.
Got home and drunk dialed practically all my friends to tell them about my right of passage! And almost no one was in!
Friday, October 29, 2004
Suits, Grown Men Crying and Drunken Kleptomania
Last night new boy took me to an exhibition opening called "Crying Men" at Jay Jopling's White Cube in Hoxton Square. White Cube has, for four years, been THE uber-cool place for young trendy-somethings (like me!) to see and be seen. Yet sadly, until last night, I had never darkened it's doors.
Before we get onto the "art" can I first pay homage to "the suit"? To date I have only seen Jakester in T-shirts and jeans (and, granted, a bit less than that! Ha!) He's a bit of a Gap / Banana Republic boy. But last night he had come straight from work and well, it was a whole different story. Let me tell you - the suit definitely maketh the man! "Look at you! You look like a GQ model!" I exclaimed rather uncooly as we met at Old Street tube. Most of the male guests, like me, had opted for the Urban-Hoxton look (unwashed, unshaved, messy hair). But, apart from the fact that he's quite tall, Jake really stood out for all the right reasons. It amused me that the girls really trip over themselves for him - although I'm sure he is completely oblivious.
Ok...enough about my suit and Jake fetish. The art:
The opening was to showcase a new collection of celebrity portraits taken by Sam Taylor-Wood - celebrities like Robert Downey Jr, Paul Newman, Michael Madsen, Jude Law and Laurence Fishburn. The theme was related to the concept of "inverting masculine stereotypes" - all the portraits featured each of the actors crying. When Taylor-Wood wrote to the male celebs she omitted to mention that she intended to make them cry. It was only when she got them on the shoot that she told them of her plan. Apparently each of the actors was able to blub on command, with the exception of Clint Eastwood.
Jake and I work the room. Neither of us really know anyone there. Now I don't know if you have ever been to an exhibit opening before but there is this real pressure to be "arty" (more so when you're dating someone new.) By this I mean adopting a critical pose infront of art(doesn't hurt to wear a pair of black horn rimmed Alain Mikli's), spouting meaningless crap about technical composition and aesthetics. Think Camille Paglia ("I am now devoid of adjectives"). So for a while Jake and I dance around each other, offering up meaningless comments on each of the portraits, each trying to appear to the other "artistically enlightened".
After a couple of minutes it becomes apparent that neither of us really knows what we're talking about. Jake cuts straight through the bullshit by leaning in and whispering to me, "So shall I buy something? Shall I ask what the prices are?"
I fold my arms and give him a mock-disapproving stare (inside I'm deeply impressed - any kind of wealth does that to me. I was definitely a gold-digger in a former life). "You're just showing off now."
"No!" he replies wide-eyed, "I'm serious! They must be for sale."
I think "fuck it" and I ask him the really inappropriate question. "Exactly how much DO you earn?"
No, I'm not going to tell you what the answer was, but I will tell you this - I'm wondering what the hell I'm doing in PR when I could be working in financial law! And you know what pisses me off? He's only a few months older than me!!! How does that happen?? Apart from being, er, born a few months before me.
Anyway - he didn't have to buy anything because, like naughty girls on a school trip, we each stole an exhibition poster from the shop! Isn't it amazing how a few glasses of champagne can bring out the kleptomaniac in you?
Before we get onto the "art" can I first pay homage to "the suit"? To date I have only seen Jakester in T-shirts and jeans (and, granted, a bit less than that! Ha!) He's a bit of a Gap / Banana Republic boy. But last night he had come straight from work and well, it was a whole different story. Let me tell you - the suit definitely maketh the man! "Look at you! You look like a GQ model!" I exclaimed rather uncooly as we met at Old Street tube. Most of the male guests, like me, had opted for the Urban-Hoxton look (unwashed, unshaved, messy hair). But, apart from the fact that he's quite tall, Jake really stood out for all the right reasons. It amused me that the girls really trip over themselves for him - although I'm sure he is completely oblivious.
Ok...enough about my suit and Jake fetish. The art:
The opening was to showcase a new collection of celebrity portraits taken by Sam Taylor-Wood - celebrities like Robert Downey Jr, Paul Newman, Michael Madsen, Jude Law and Laurence Fishburn. The theme was related to the concept of "inverting masculine stereotypes" - all the portraits featured each of the actors crying. When Taylor-Wood wrote to the male celebs she omitted to mention that she intended to make them cry. It was only when she got them on the shoot that she told them of her plan. Apparently each of the actors was able to blub on command, with the exception of Clint Eastwood.
Jake and I work the room. Neither of us really know anyone there. Now I don't know if you have ever been to an exhibit opening before but there is this real pressure to be "arty" (more so when you're dating someone new.) By this I mean adopting a critical pose infront of art(doesn't hurt to wear a pair of black horn rimmed Alain Mikli's), spouting meaningless crap about technical composition and aesthetics. Think Camille Paglia ("I am now devoid of adjectives"). So for a while Jake and I dance around each other, offering up meaningless comments on each of the portraits, each trying to appear to the other "artistically enlightened".
After a couple of minutes it becomes apparent that neither of us really knows what we're talking about. Jake cuts straight through the bullshit by leaning in and whispering to me, "So shall I buy something? Shall I ask what the prices are?"
I fold my arms and give him a mock-disapproving stare (inside I'm deeply impressed - any kind of wealth does that to me. I was definitely a gold-digger in a former life). "You're just showing off now."
"No!" he replies wide-eyed, "I'm serious! They must be for sale."
I think "fuck it" and I ask him the really inappropriate question. "Exactly how much DO you earn?"
No, I'm not going to tell you what the answer was, but I will tell you this - I'm wondering what the hell I'm doing in PR when I could be working in financial law! And you know what pisses me off? He's only a few months older than me!!! How does that happen?? Apart from being, er, born a few months before me.
Anyway - he didn't have to buy anything because, like naughty girls on a school trip, we each stole an exhibition poster from the shop! Isn't it amazing how a few glasses of champagne can bring out the kleptomaniac in you?
Thursday, October 28, 2004
I Feel All...Loved!!!
I just looked at the bottom of that last blog entry and there are no less than FIVE comments! Can I just say how much I appreciate your kind words? I really didn't know how I felt about being so candid, but I'm glad that it struck such a positive chord.
So now I feel very loved. I walked to work today and felt really, really sorted - there was a definite spring in my step! And then when I got to the top of the stairs at work I saw my reflection in the arty mirror thing. I am wearing my pink ripped T-shirt that shows my chest off to full advantage, ripped jeans, and my hair (the longest I've had it in about eight years!) was falling sexily infront of my eyes. And I thought "Wow Kinsey! You're a bit sexy, aren't you!?"
OH COME ON! I'm allowed to indulge myself once in a while!
So now I feel very loved. I walked to work today and felt really, really sorted - there was a definite spring in my step! And then when I got to the top of the stairs at work I saw my reflection in the arty mirror thing. I am wearing my pink ripped T-shirt that shows my chest off to full advantage, ripped jeans, and my hair (the longest I've had it in about eight years!) was falling sexily infront of my eyes. And I thought "Wow Kinsey! You're a bit sexy, aren't you!?"
OH COME ON! I'm allowed to indulge myself once in a while!
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
Milking
I have a blocked saliva gland. When I eat anything substantial it swells up to the size of a golfball and sticks out of my neck. Fortunately after about ten minutes it goes down again but while it's enlarged it's not an attractive sight. However I am informed that it is not a big problem. The doctor said yesterday that all I have to do, and these are his words, is to "milk it."
Last night Jake rubbed it for me. Yes - I know what this means.
Jake "milked" me.
The latent humiliation I am experiencing is quite profound.
Last night Jake rubbed it for me. Yes - I know what this means.
Jake "milked" me.
The latent humiliation I am experiencing is quite profound.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
What's It All About, Chrissy?
Have you ever been somewhere, like a doctors waiting room for example, and said something really funny to the receptionist? She laughs and you laugh, yet the joke seems kind of hollow. And you think to yourself “I wish that there was someone I know here, so that they could see how funny I am.”
After I started my first blog, when I was in New York, I remember my friend Matt emailing me. He told me that it seemed obscene to him that I would write down so many personal things about myself and others for all the world to read. What exactly was it that I thought I was doing? And why did I think that anyone was remotely interested in what I had to say? He bought it up again when we were having dinner the other night. I think he even said something really melodramatic about it being “betrayal on a grand scale.” Hmmm. I guess we’re all entitled to our opinions.
I was having drinks the other night with my friend Rachel and she said that she really enjoyed reading my blog and I was glad. Because you see the thing is, obviously I don’t just write this for myself. If I wanted to do that I would keep a diary and hide it under my mattress. I used to do that actually. I found that diary recently and, to not put too fine a point on it, it made really depressing reading. I would only ever write entries when I felt depressed which actually was not that often. The diary is actually quite a thin notebook and yet contains over five years worth of sorrows. So for the most part I guess I was quite happy, because I never wrote about it!
So lately I’ve been thinking to myself “why do I write my blog?” Well, I guess there are a number of reasons. But before I explain why I just want to say that I think most of us at some point in our lives have kept some kind of journal or diary. And I believe that deep inside we were, or are, hoping that someone might find it. Why else did we store it under the mattress, when that was the most likely place that it would be found? I don’t know if anyone ever found my diary but I’m pretty sure I must have entertained the idea that someone would do, one day. And because it makes such depressing reading I now hope to god they didn’t. I know I can get the odd bout of melancholy, but on the whole I think I am a pretty happy, well adjusted person (in my own special way!)
The first reason I have a blog is because of Drew. He started his blog in September of 2003, just after he came back from his summer working in Ibiza. They say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, so I am sure that he is flattered that I started my first blog soon after reading his. Of course now I am well on to my second blog. I like to think of the first one as a kind of chalk pad for the second act. Most of you won’t have read it, which is kind of good, because it was really wasn’t me at my best. I was warming up!
The second reason that I write this is because it encourages me to think about things that I wouldn’t normally pay attention to. Sometimes it might be a funny joke and I want to record it here for the record (I, like so many of us, can never remember a joke.) Quite often it is because I want to share a personal, touching moment with you all. When you know that every day a whole bunch of the people you care most about in the world, not to mention the readers you’ve never even met before, are waiting anxiously for the next installment of your little view of life, as you see it (and I am touched that for some of you I am the first thing you ‘do’ when you log on at work in the morning) it makes you look around and focus on the smaller moments in life. It makes you ask questions. It makes you think things like “What if they discovered a new colour? Would we be able to see it?” And it sounds way pretentious, but you start to see the bigger picture. I have always maintained that the big moments in life are masquerading as the inconsequential, smaller moments. In the last few days, for me, it was a trip to the gym.
The third reason is that I guess I want to create something that is about me, but that is also bigger than me. Raise your hand if you have ever wanted to be famous. If your hand isn’t up right now (do it mentally if you are at work) then you’re a liar. We’ve all considered it. Rock star, actor, presenter, author. Why is Drew in New Zealand writing a book? Why did Will go on Big Brother? Why did Helen do Changing Rooms? Well I guess to answer those questions properly you’ll have to ask those people yourselves - but let me hazard a guess, at least for part of the reason. Most of us don’t crave fame for fames sake. We seek it because we want to make a profound, indelible and unique stamp on the world. It’s about documenting that there is more to us than meets the eye. That we can write really well, or that we have a caustic and clever wit, or that we have excellent taste in interior design, or even that we can be, unprompted, really funny in the doctors waiting room. I’m not kidding myself that I am anywhere near famous for writing this blog, but the other day I got an email from an American girl living in France who said that she thought I was really “insightful”. Do you know how much it means to hear that from someone you have never met before?
I’ll admit that there is an element of exhibitionism in this thing – I’m putting myself on a stage for the time that you read this. I’m making a big assumption that you are interested in what I have to say. And maybe, Matt has a point. Maybe it is wrong for me to document conversations that I had with Jake. But I’m not that convinced. If you want to be really moral then I could say that you are all voyeurs – I mean, you keep coming back for more, don’t you, you sickos! But we all know that’s not true (*hugs you all*). I think that the best thing about being a human is the ways in which we can express ourselves. And what’s the point of expression if there’s no one around willing to listen?
Ted Hughes wrote and published a book called “The Birthday Letters” which was all about his tempestuous, and for the most part, distressing relationship with Sylvia Plath. I’m sure that there were, and still are, some people who think that it was an inappropriate thing to do. But I’m guessing that there were a lot more people who read his poems and stories and found hope or similitude. I am NOT, for the record, aligning myself with Ted Hughes. But maybe, in a much smaller way, when I tell you all about my meeting a really nice, kind and handsome guy at the gym I can share with you a bit of my warm, fuzzy glow. We all like to hear stories. They can make us happy or sad, but above all they make us feel human and connected. How many times have you heard a truly terrible story about someone else’s suffering only for it to remind you how lucky you really are? Or listened to a story about two old friends falling in love, making you realize that it “can really happen”?
So I’m not going to listen to Matt. I’m going to continue to write this blog and share my little life with you all. And I’ll try to be faithful to the twists and turns.
But seriously…can you imagine how cool it would be if they DID discover a new colour?
After I started my first blog, when I was in New York, I remember my friend Matt emailing me. He told me that it seemed obscene to him that I would write down so many personal things about myself and others for all the world to read. What exactly was it that I thought I was doing? And why did I think that anyone was remotely interested in what I had to say? He bought it up again when we were having dinner the other night. I think he even said something really melodramatic about it being “betrayal on a grand scale.” Hmmm. I guess we’re all entitled to our opinions.
I was having drinks the other night with my friend Rachel and she said that she really enjoyed reading my blog and I was glad. Because you see the thing is, obviously I don’t just write this for myself. If I wanted to do that I would keep a diary and hide it under my mattress. I used to do that actually. I found that diary recently and, to not put too fine a point on it, it made really depressing reading. I would only ever write entries when I felt depressed which actually was not that often. The diary is actually quite a thin notebook and yet contains over five years worth of sorrows. So for the most part I guess I was quite happy, because I never wrote about it!
So lately I’ve been thinking to myself “why do I write my blog?” Well, I guess there are a number of reasons. But before I explain why I just want to say that I think most of us at some point in our lives have kept some kind of journal or diary. And I believe that deep inside we were, or are, hoping that someone might find it. Why else did we store it under the mattress, when that was the most likely place that it would be found? I don’t know if anyone ever found my diary but I’m pretty sure I must have entertained the idea that someone would do, one day. And because it makes such depressing reading I now hope to god they didn’t. I know I can get the odd bout of melancholy, but on the whole I think I am a pretty happy, well adjusted person (in my own special way!)
The first reason I have a blog is because of Drew. He started his blog in September of 2003, just after he came back from his summer working in Ibiza. They say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, so I am sure that he is flattered that I started my first blog soon after reading his. Of course now I am well on to my second blog. I like to think of the first one as a kind of chalk pad for the second act. Most of you won’t have read it, which is kind of good, because it was really wasn’t me at my best. I was warming up!
The second reason that I write this is because it encourages me to think about things that I wouldn’t normally pay attention to. Sometimes it might be a funny joke and I want to record it here for the record (I, like so many of us, can never remember a joke.) Quite often it is because I want to share a personal, touching moment with you all. When you know that every day a whole bunch of the people you care most about in the world, not to mention the readers you’ve never even met before, are waiting anxiously for the next installment of your little view of life, as you see it (and I am touched that for some of you I am the first thing you ‘do’ when you log on at work in the morning) it makes you look around and focus on the smaller moments in life. It makes you ask questions. It makes you think things like “What if they discovered a new colour? Would we be able to see it?” And it sounds way pretentious, but you start to see the bigger picture. I have always maintained that the big moments in life are masquerading as the inconsequential, smaller moments. In the last few days, for me, it was a trip to the gym.
The third reason is that I guess I want to create something that is about me, but that is also bigger than me. Raise your hand if you have ever wanted to be famous. If your hand isn’t up right now (do it mentally if you are at work) then you’re a liar. We’ve all considered it. Rock star, actor, presenter, author. Why is Drew in New Zealand writing a book? Why did Will go on Big Brother? Why did Helen do Changing Rooms? Well I guess to answer those questions properly you’ll have to ask those people yourselves - but let me hazard a guess, at least for part of the reason. Most of us don’t crave fame for fames sake. We seek it because we want to make a profound, indelible and unique stamp on the world. It’s about documenting that there is more to us than meets the eye. That we can write really well, or that we have a caustic and clever wit, or that we have excellent taste in interior design, or even that we can be, unprompted, really funny in the doctors waiting room. I’m not kidding myself that I am anywhere near famous for writing this blog, but the other day I got an email from an American girl living in France who said that she thought I was really “insightful”. Do you know how much it means to hear that from someone you have never met before?
I’ll admit that there is an element of exhibitionism in this thing – I’m putting myself on a stage for the time that you read this. I’m making a big assumption that you are interested in what I have to say. And maybe, Matt has a point. Maybe it is wrong for me to document conversations that I had with Jake. But I’m not that convinced. If you want to be really moral then I could say that you are all voyeurs – I mean, you keep coming back for more, don’t you, you sickos! But we all know that’s not true (*hugs you all*). I think that the best thing about being a human is the ways in which we can express ourselves. And what’s the point of expression if there’s no one around willing to listen?
Ted Hughes wrote and published a book called “The Birthday Letters” which was all about his tempestuous, and for the most part, distressing relationship with Sylvia Plath. I’m sure that there were, and still are, some people who think that it was an inappropriate thing to do. But I’m guessing that there were a lot more people who read his poems and stories and found hope or similitude. I am NOT, for the record, aligning myself with Ted Hughes. But maybe, in a much smaller way, when I tell you all about my meeting a really nice, kind and handsome guy at the gym I can share with you a bit of my warm, fuzzy glow. We all like to hear stories. They can make us happy or sad, but above all they make us feel human and connected. How many times have you heard a truly terrible story about someone else’s suffering only for it to remind you how lucky you really are? Or listened to a story about two old friends falling in love, making you realize that it “can really happen”?
So I’m not going to listen to Matt. I’m going to continue to write this blog and share my little life with you all. And I’ll try to be faithful to the twists and turns.
But seriously…can you imagine how cool it would be if they DID discover a new colour?
Monday, October 25, 2004
Broken Hearts, Merlot, Komodo Dragons and Bruvvers
Wayne broke up with his boyfriend on Thursday, so decided to come to London to in some way drown his sorrows. He’s doing ok in the unique way that Wayne deals with things – he just gets on with life. I admire him for that. He’s a rock in every sense of the word.
Anyway - it was Ollie’s birthday today so Wayne went with the other Scoobie’s to see The Barber of Seville in the afternoon, followed by dinner. The idea was that I would meet with them all afterwards, mainly so that I could see Wayne. Only Wayne calls me at about 8pm and says that he is feeling “old” (I quickly point out to him that he is in fact the same age as me) and is going home to bed. I think he misses Vince. I know how that feels, so I offer some words of encouragement and then we text each other for a bit afterwards.
So then of course, I was at a bit of a loose end. Earlier Jake had texted me and asked what I was doing. I was quite glad to have already made plans with Wayne, so that I could truly sound like I had a life beyond sitting at home waiting for sexy lawyers to call / text me. Except that now my plans had fallen through I began to devise means with which I could muscle in on what Jake was doing (entertaining friends at home.) So I sent a mournful text, explaining that my heartbroken friend had decided to turn in for the night and that I would now be at home lamenting the demise of a night at TooTooMuch by nursing a cheap bottle of Merlot.
It worked. Within two minutes he called me and ordered me round (like a pizza!) I offered to bring the bottle of Merlot, but he said that it was ok, cause he had loads of other wine. I have a sneaking suspicion that he was being a wine snob.
So within 24 hours of properly meeting Jake, I was now meeting his friends. It hasn’t escaped my attention that the seemingly consequential events in my life seem to have incredible inertia, propelling themselves forward at light speed! Or maybe I just move too fast. If you think about it, it’s kind of true – everything about me is fast…the way I move, speak, eat, drive. I’m kind of, um, “rapid-fire”. It’s an endearing quality, don’t you think?
Jake’s friends were Annie, a very attractive lesbian, and Jason, the guy I forgot I met at the Shadow Lounge. I still didn’t recall him upon re-meeting him, which was quite amusing to the three of them. Apparently it was the night of my birthday and I hadn’t seemed to them to be that drunk (although I know I was!) Anyway - Annie is the manager at Comme des Garcons (I was glad I changed into my Donna Karen shirt – I wanted to rectify the gym-disaster outfit I had been wearing previously) and Jason is a VP at Credit Suisse in Canary Wharf. And they were both super lovely and seemed to be very interested in me – I did seem to get a bit of a grilling when I arrived. Twenty questions. I got the distinct feeling that I had been “discussed” in some detail before I got there.
And so the evening went – the three of us stayed up talking and drinking until about 2ish, at which point Annie and Jason decided to share a cab home together. And after they left Jake and I carried on talking. This led to us going through his books and we discovered that he too is a big fan of Douglas Coupland (my favorite author.) This, in turn, led on to photo albums and I pretended to be really interested as he tried to find pictures he’d taken of Komodo Dragons in Indonesia.
In the morning we got up at a respectable hour and at Jake’s suggestion we went out together to get some breakfast things and some Sunday newspapers. He lives right next to the Millennium Bridge (the one that used to wobble) and I hadn’t walked over it before and was eager to find out if it still shook. So we walked across to the other side, decided that it definitely didn’t wobble, and walked back again. After we walked to the grocery store and got all the bits and pieces we sat down by the Tate garden so that I could have a cigarette (he doesn’t smoke in his apartment.) And we got to talking about our brothers.
I have never had a particularly close relationship with my brother. There was always this fragile age gap between us of two and a half years, where it was just impossible for us to find any middle ground where we be able to get on. There must have been some times when we were really young and we played together, but I can’t remember them. Mum does say that when my brother was born and he was bought home, I would try to hold him and would say that he was “my baby”. That makes me smile.
My brother and I are chalk and cheese. I think with my heart. He thinks with his head. I am good at communicating. He is good with his hands (he is a really skilled carpenter.) We are alike, however, in that we are always being told that we are very good looking boys, albeit in different ways. I’ve always thought that I’m cute in a kind of smiley, “grab his cheeks and squeeze them” kind of way, whereas my brother is just dark, moody and handsome!
The only times I remember between my brother and I are the times that we would fight. And it’s funny, because my brother is much stronger than I am, yet I would always win. This had a lot to do with my fighting dirty. Stephen would always go to punch me in the face. Meanwhile I had picked up the breadboard and was already prepared to bring it down on the top of his head. I don’t know to this day how I didn’t ever end up seriously hurting him. I remember this one time where he was annoying me by changing the TV channels, so I literally frisbeed a plate of food at him, cracking him sharply on the side of the head. And this was the other thing with Stephen. As children he was always the one who cried. I would never, ever cry. My Dad says that when I was really young they could smack me and shout at me but I would remain completely dry - although my bottom lip would sometimes tremble!
So anyway – Jake and I sat and recounted tales of our relationships with our brothers. It’s funny, because not only are we almost the same age (give or take three or four months) but our brothers are equidistant in terms of age to / from us (Jake’s brother is older than him.) And both of us have no functioning relationship with our brothers.
I told Jake something that I have always felt. “People always think that it’s strange that I don’t get on with my brother. I mean our relationship is limited to me asking him to put Mum on the phone - that’s pretty much it. I always get the impression that people think there is something dysfunctional in the way that I, as an adult, don’t communicate with my sibling.”
And Jake said something like, “But the thing is, you and I know that we’re not coldhearted. And those people who judge us didn’t have our relationships with our brothers. So they don’t know, do they? It’s like people don’t know about or 'get' a lot of things.”
And then he turns to me and says with real seriousness, "We kind of get each other, don't we?"
It felt that he had hit on something irreducible here and talking much beyond this point would have betrayed the moment. So I just smiled and nodded. So we got up and walked back to the apartment. We set out the breakfast stuff – muffins and croissants and juice – on the floor in the living area and we sat and read the papers. And for a couple of hours that was all we did. We just read and didn’t talk much.
And it was just two people who have acknowledged some random connection not feeling uncomfortable in the silence.
Anyway - it was Ollie’s birthday today so Wayne went with the other Scoobie’s to see The Barber of Seville in the afternoon, followed by dinner. The idea was that I would meet with them all afterwards, mainly so that I could see Wayne. Only Wayne calls me at about 8pm and says that he is feeling “old” (I quickly point out to him that he is in fact the same age as me) and is going home to bed. I think he misses Vince. I know how that feels, so I offer some words of encouragement and then we text each other for a bit afterwards.
So then of course, I was at a bit of a loose end. Earlier Jake had texted me and asked what I was doing. I was quite glad to have already made plans with Wayne, so that I could truly sound like I had a life beyond sitting at home waiting for sexy lawyers to call / text me. Except that now my plans had fallen through I began to devise means with which I could muscle in on what Jake was doing (entertaining friends at home.) So I sent a mournful text, explaining that my heartbroken friend had decided to turn in for the night and that I would now be at home lamenting the demise of a night at TooTooMuch by nursing a cheap bottle of Merlot.
It worked. Within two minutes he called me and ordered me round (like a pizza!) I offered to bring the bottle of Merlot, but he said that it was ok, cause he had loads of other wine. I have a sneaking suspicion that he was being a wine snob.
So within 24 hours of properly meeting Jake, I was now meeting his friends. It hasn’t escaped my attention that the seemingly consequential events in my life seem to have incredible inertia, propelling themselves forward at light speed! Or maybe I just move too fast. If you think about it, it’s kind of true – everything about me is fast…the way I move, speak, eat, drive. I’m kind of, um, “rapid-fire”. It’s an endearing quality, don’t you think?
Jake’s friends were Annie, a very attractive lesbian, and Jason, the guy I forgot I met at the Shadow Lounge. I still didn’t recall him upon re-meeting him, which was quite amusing to the three of them. Apparently it was the night of my birthday and I hadn’t seemed to them to be that drunk (although I know I was!) Anyway - Annie is the manager at Comme des Garcons (I was glad I changed into my Donna Karen shirt – I wanted to rectify the gym-disaster outfit I had been wearing previously) and Jason is a VP at Credit Suisse in Canary Wharf. And they were both super lovely and seemed to be very interested in me – I did seem to get a bit of a grilling when I arrived. Twenty questions. I got the distinct feeling that I had been “discussed” in some detail before I got there.
And so the evening went – the three of us stayed up talking and drinking until about 2ish, at which point Annie and Jason decided to share a cab home together. And after they left Jake and I carried on talking. This led to us going through his books and we discovered that he too is a big fan of Douglas Coupland (my favorite author.) This, in turn, led on to photo albums and I pretended to be really interested as he tried to find pictures he’d taken of Komodo Dragons in Indonesia.
In the morning we got up at a respectable hour and at Jake’s suggestion we went out together to get some breakfast things and some Sunday newspapers. He lives right next to the Millennium Bridge (the one that used to wobble) and I hadn’t walked over it before and was eager to find out if it still shook. So we walked across to the other side, decided that it definitely didn’t wobble, and walked back again. After we walked to the grocery store and got all the bits and pieces we sat down by the Tate garden so that I could have a cigarette (he doesn’t smoke in his apartment.) And we got to talking about our brothers.
I have never had a particularly close relationship with my brother. There was always this fragile age gap between us of two and a half years, where it was just impossible for us to find any middle ground where we be able to get on. There must have been some times when we were really young and we played together, but I can’t remember them. Mum does say that when my brother was born and he was bought home, I would try to hold him and would say that he was “my baby”. That makes me smile.
My brother and I are chalk and cheese. I think with my heart. He thinks with his head. I am good at communicating. He is good with his hands (he is a really skilled carpenter.) We are alike, however, in that we are always being told that we are very good looking boys, albeit in different ways. I’ve always thought that I’m cute in a kind of smiley, “grab his cheeks and squeeze them” kind of way, whereas my brother is just dark, moody and handsome!
The only times I remember between my brother and I are the times that we would fight. And it’s funny, because my brother is much stronger than I am, yet I would always win. This had a lot to do with my fighting dirty. Stephen would always go to punch me in the face. Meanwhile I had picked up the breadboard and was already prepared to bring it down on the top of his head. I don’t know to this day how I didn’t ever end up seriously hurting him. I remember this one time where he was annoying me by changing the TV channels, so I literally frisbeed a plate of food at him, cracking him sharply on the side of the head. And this was the other thing with Stephen. As children he was always the one who cried. I would never, ever cry. My Dad says that when I was really young they could smack me and shout at me but I would remain completely dry - although my bottom lip would sometimes tremble!
So anyway – Jake and I sat and recounted tales of our relationships with our brothers. It’s funny, because not only are we almost the same age (give or take three or four months) but our brothers are equidistant in terms of age to / from us (Jake’s brother is older than him.) And both of us have no functioning relationship with our brothers.
I told Jake something that I have always felt. “People always think that it’s strange that I don’t get on with my brother. I mean our relationship is limited to me asking him to put Mum on the phone - that’s pretty much it. I always get the impression that people think there is something dysfunctional in the way that I, as an adult, don’t communicate with my sibling.”
And Jake said something like, “But the thing is, you and I know that we’re not coldhearted. And those people who judge us didn’t have our relationships with our brothers. So they don’t know, do they? It’s like people don’t know about or 'get' a lot of things.”
And then he turns to me and says with real seriousness, "We kind of get each other, don't we?"
It felt that he had hit on something irreducible here and talking much beyond this point would have betrayed the moment. So I just smiled and nodded. So we got up and walked back to the apartment. We set out the breakfast stuff – muffins and croissants and juice – on the floor in the living area and we sat and read the papers. And for a couple of hours that was all we did. We just read and didn’t talk much.
And it was just two people who have acknowledged some random connection not feeling uncomfortable in the silence.
Saturday, October 23, 2004
About Last Night...
...well this is a weird blog entry. I’m still kinda tripping on this one!
I’m currently sat in the most amazing loft apartment. The view out of the window is the entrance to the Tate Modern - you know, the entrance into the turbine hall? The kitchen where I just made my coffee is like a million miles across the room and the walls are decorated with really cool New York style tag art. And I’m writing on this PC that is like the monolith from 2001. And I have a kind of warm, fuzzy glow…
So how did I get here? Here’s the story…
Last night at about 5pm I decided that I should really go to the gym as I didn’t have any other more superior plans. That would give me enough time to get home to watch French & Saunders at 9pm. So I left the house unshaved, hair all over the place, wearing tracksuit pants, a really old T-shirt, a denim jacket and a scarf.
So I get to the gym in Covent Garden and start my work out by doing the obligatory look around. And there are the usual suspects. There’s Scott, the Select model, who I only know by name because I once called in his Z card for a casting. And Ben, the Models One booker, who has met me about a million times but never remembers who I am. And Alec, the dancer guy, who I once hooked up with at Fiction. We chat for a while until he starts talking about his boyfriend and then I kinda lose interest.
I start working out proper. After about half an hour I notice that there is this guy who seems to be looking from over near the rowing machines. It’s kinda far away and as I’m not wearing my glasses I’m not entirely sure that it’s definitely me he’s looking at. I decide that it’s probably not because this guy is one of those very beautiful, male model, ripped types – the ones who only ever stick to their own gene pool. In other words, out of my league (ok, I know I’m no dog, but you have to be realistic sometimes.)
Then because I can’t see him that well I decide to work out a bit nearer him. Decide to do some shoulder presses (which I HATE doing) just to get a better view. Casual, casual…don’t want to give the game away. I stop between sets and casually look around, stopping on him just long enough to take it all in, without being obvious (this will surprise some of my friends, that I can be discreet from time to time – only when it’s someone I’M interested in, mind you!). Ok…to not put too fine a point on it – this guy is for want of a better word, just amazing looking. Messy brown hair, dark dark brown eyes, a bit of stubble, big lips (not too big) tanned, punctuated with a beautiful tattoo running up his arm and across the top of his chest. Definitely a model I decide.
So I look away and act all cool. But then it’s all too much so I look back. And then I realize that I know him from somewhere. This isn’t that unusual, cause guys like this are pretty easy to spot, and can usually be found on the main floor, shirtless, at DTPM. Me and my friends have lusted after them from afar on many, many occasions.
And then the worst thing in the world happens – he catches me looking at him. Argh! Busted! But then something weird happens. He smiles and mouths “Hey!” So I regain my composure in like a millisecond and smile my best non-broken jaw smile back – “Hey,” I mouth in return.
And that’s it. About a minute later he gets up and I don’t see him again. It occurs to me that maybe he’s working out somewhere else, so I try and find him (casually, casually) but it looks as if he’s definitely gone. Damn. Oh well. Too much to wish for anyway. But I did get a smile. That’s gotta be worth something, right?
So I carry on working out. The place is starting to thin out now, so I can get on the free weights. I stay for probably about another half hour before deciding to call it a day. I run up to the changing rooms, shower, freshen up and get my stuff together. I decide that I am going to see if my jaw (still a little sore) can cope with a honey and sunflower bagel with turkey and cream cheese, so I run into the Bagel Factory before I leave. Yes – Bagel seems to be manageable. So I leave, but as I walk out of the door onto Endell Street the cream cheese gets the better of me and I manage to smooth it all over my cheek. Attractive!
“Hi!” Someone taps me on the back.
I spin around while wiping the remnants of the cream cheese from my mouth. Then I almost choke because the person who has accosted me is none other than the guy from the gym. THE guy from the gym. Again, I miraculously regain my composure in record time, while trying to swallow without choking. “Hi” I say, very, very coolly. “What’s up?”
He smiles. Wow! That smile!!! My knees weaken. “This is going to sound really crap, but I think I know you. Aren’t you Chris?”
“Yeah,” I respond, hoping and praying that I haven’t got any more cream cheese on my face. “We know each other from somewhere don’t we?”
“From the Shadow Lounge a few weeks ago. You were talking to my friend Jason.”
Now I’m really lost. I mean it’s very possible that I have seen him before in Shadow Lounge, but I don’t remember speaking to anyone called Jason. I don’t know anyone called Jason. I grin. “I have a really bad habit of talking to people for ages and then not remembering their name. Sorry! Did I talk to you as well?”
“I think we were kind of introduced, but that was it.”
“You know I thought I recognized you downstairs, but thought that I’d probably just seen you out and about. So we were introduced? Needless to say I’ve forgotten your name!”
“Jake,” he stretches out his hand…
Now anyone who knows me knows that Jake is one of my favorite names ever. Really masculine and simple and unusual. So I can’t believe that I a) met him and didn’t try to keep talking to him and b) forgot his name when it’s, like, one of my fave names!
I accept his handshake. “Christopher. But you already know that!”
So we start chatting and he tells me who Jason is, cause I have no recollection at all. And I explain that I have a memory like a sieve and that very probably I was fucked up anyway. And all the time all I can think is “Why are you talking to me? Why are you talking to me?”
After a couple of minutes the customary pleasantries seem to be winding themselves up and it is probably time for one of us to move on. And because I am nervous as hell it’s me. “Well it was really nice to meet you…again!”
“Um…so do you have any plans for this evening?” Now he’s looking sheepish. Could he be asking me out? No. Definitely not. He’s just being polite.
“A bit sad I’m afraid. No plans so I’m staying in to watch TV!”
“Oh ok. Um…well do you fancy going for a drink. I mean if you don’t have to get home soon?”
Oh…my…god…! Inside I’m dissolving. This can’t be happening. And all the time, regardless of the fact that now it’s very clear that he’s hitting on me, there is still this voice in my head going “he’s just being friendly!”
But outside I’m working. “Sure. That would be nice.”
So we wander off in no particular direction. We chat about the inconsequential – how long we’ve been going to Cannons, how long we usually work out for, etc – the whole way down the street until we get to Opollo’s, some bar I’ve been to only a couple of times before. “Do you want to go here?” I ask, “or somewhere, er, gay?”
“Here is fine.”
So we go in. And for the next two hours or so we literally don’t stop talking. And I don’t get too drunk, considering that I’ve just worked out and am now replacing all my fluids with lager!
So this is Jake in a nutshell. 32, a lawyer in the City, originally from Cheshire and yes he did go to a boys school, hence the posh accent. Graduated in Law from Cardiff University in 1995 and that’s when he moved to London. Been in one long term relationship – four years – but broke up with him last year after he discovered the boyfriend cheating on him. Used to have a dog but the boyfriend got that in the “divorce.” Goes clubbing from time to time, but has grown out of the whole drug scene so tries to limit it to once a month. LOVES the movies and his favorite recent film was Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. This provides about half an hour of conversation in itself as I too have only just seen it and LOVED it.
And so the evening goes until I look at my phone and notice that it’s about 9.30pm. “Do you have to go?” he asks me?
“No. But was just thinking that I missed French & Saunders!”
“Well that’s ok, cause I taped it,” he says giving my knee a gentle squeeze, smiling cockily. At this point my pulse quickens dramatically.
“Really? Well I guess I’ll have to come round and watch it sometime.”
“You could come round tonight and watch it?”
And then I did something I almost NEVER do…I blew him out.
“Um. The thing is that, if I’m going to be really honest, this is all going quite well and I think that, er, maybe we should leave it for another time. Kind of quit while the going is good?”
“Got it,” he says and doesn’t look crushed, which kind of annoys me. “But you don’t have to go yet, do you? I was thinking we could go somewhere else…maybe get something to eat?”
So we settle up and leave and start walking. Again, we don’t seem to be heading towards anywhere in particular…just walking. And he keeps doing this thing where he kind of playfully bumps into me when I’m talking and then smiles like he’s been naughty.
We end up walking down to Embankment and I ask where he wants to go, cause really there’s only Q-Bar and Heaven and I’m not really in the mood to go clubbing! He says that there is this really nice bar across the Thames on the Festival Hall side so we walk over the bridge. Halfway over he insists that we stop to take in the view. I have to agree – the view from Waterloo bridge is one of my favorites of London. Especially at that time of the night because the water picks up the reflection of all the lights along the bankside. So we stand there side by side and no one is saying anything. So then I can feel him looking at me, so I turn, and then as I do he looks away as if he’s been caught out.
We cross the river and start walking along the South Bank, past the Festival Hall. And I ask where this bar is and then he kind of smirks. “Well there is this bar further along that’s ok I guess, but if we keep walking we’ll come to where I live and I was thinking that maybe we could have a few drinks there.”
I give him my best “I thought we had this discussion” look while at the same time mulling the proposition over. I mean I had been strong enough to say that I wasn’t coming back in the first place. Maybe I could go for a bit and be strong enough later to not stay the night. Yeah, I could do that…no problem.
So I make up my mind, but of course, for effect, I kinda act like I am still thinking about it. I want to look like one of these guys that is NOT easily bowled over by a guy like this one!
After a well chosen delay of about 1.5 seconds I respond, “Ok, but seriously, just one or two drinks. I can’t stay…I have about a million things I need to do tomorrow.”
He nods earnestly, “Definitely. Just one or two.” And then he smiles and I know that things aren’t gonna go my way.
We carry on walking along South Bank, past the OXO tower, past IPC, until eventually we get to Blackfriars, then down this street until we get to this building. We go in and he says “Evening” or something like that to the doorman. It’s a pretty unspectacular lobby. We get into the lift and as soon as the doors close he turns to me and starts to kiss me. Really, really well I might add.
The lift stops at somesuch floor and we stop kissing and emerge into this hall area. His apartment seems to be right at the end, and it’s kind of a long hall and I semi-consciously look around for the fire escape. I always do that. I don’t know why…
Well I’ve already described the apartment. We haven’t discussed how much money he earns but I’m guessing it has to be a lot. And he’s posh obviously, so perhaps he has money from parents. I don’t know. Not that it really matters (dollar signs appearing in my head!)
Anyway - I’ve written too much already. I won’t give you all the other minute details. But I’ll leave you with this: we did have more than two glasses of wine. And I did stay the night (well that’s obvious isn’t it, cause I’m still here!) I am a bit worried about writing this on his computer. He left at about 11am to go to the office but said I could stay as long as I wanted, which is pretty trusting for someone he’s only really properly met once.
But you see the thing is this…when I got up there was this note on the kitchen counter reading:
“I’m hoping you might still be here when I get back. About 4pm. Can you wait? J x”
And you know what? I don’t think I will! I’m a busy boy and have a hundred and one things to do, for real. But not until I have another coffee, and pretend that it’s my apartment and my kitchen!
(Yeah, I’m leaving my number! I’m not a complete fool!)
I’m currently sat in the most amazing loft apartment. The view out of the window is the entrance to the Tate Modern - you know, the entrance into the turbine hall? The kitchen where I just made my coffee is like a million miles across the room and the walls are decorated with really cool New York style tag art. And I’m writing on this PC that is like the monolith from 2001. And I have a kind of warm, fuzzy glow…
So how did I get here? Here’s the story…
Last night at about 5pm I decided that I should really go to the gym as I didn’t have any other more superior plans. That would give me enough time to get home to watch French & Saunders at 9pm. So I left the house unshaved, hair all over the place, wearing tracksuit pants, a really old T-shirt, a denim jacket and a scarf.
So I get to the gym in Covent Garden and start my work out by doing the obligatory look around. And there are the usual suspects. There’s Scott, the Select model, who I only know by name because I once called in his Z card for a casting. And Ben, the Models One booker, who has met me about a million times but never remembers who I am. And Alec, the dancer guy, who I once hooked up with at Fiction. We chat for a while until he starts talking about his boyfriend and then I kinda lose interest.
I start working out proper. After about half an hour I notice that there is this guy who seems to be looking from over near the rowing machines. It’s kinda far away and as I’m not wearing my glasses I’m not entirely sure that it’s definitely me he’s looking at. I decide that it’s probably not because this guy is one of those very beautiful, male model, ripped types – the ones who only ever stick to their own gene pool. In other words, out of my league (ok, I know I’m no dog, but you have to be realistic sometimes.)
Then because I can’t see him that well I decide to work out a bit nearer him. Decide to do some shoulder presses (which I HATE doing) just to get a better view. Casual, casual…don’t want to give the game away. I stop between sets and casually look around, stopping on him just long enough to take it all in, without being obvious (this will surprise some of my friends, that I can be discreet from time to time – only when it’s someone I’M interested in, mind you!). Ok…to not put too fine a point on it – this guy is for want of a better word, just amazing looking. Messy brown hair, dark dark brown eyes, a bit of stubble, big lips (not too big) tanned, punctuated with a beautiful tattoo running up his arm and across the top of his chest. Definitely a model I decide.
So I look away and act all cool. But then it’s all too much so I look back. And then I realize that I know him from somewhere. This isn’t that unusual, cause guys like this are pretty easy to spot, and can usually be found on the main floor, shirtless, at DTPM. Me and my friends have lusted after them from afar on many, many occasions.
And then the worst thing in the world happens – he catches me looking at him. Argh! Busted! But then something weird happens. He smiles and mouths “Hey!” So I regain my composure in like a millisecond and smile my best non-broken jaw smile back – “Hey,” I mouth in return.
And that’s it. About a minute later he gets up and I don’t see him again. It occurs to me that maybe he’s working out somewhere else, so I try and find him (casually, casually) but it looks as if he’s definitely gone. Damn. Oh well. Too much to wish for anyway. But I did get a smile. That’s gotta be worth something, right?
So I carry on working out. The place is starting to thin out now, so I can get on the free weights. I stay for probably about another half hour before deciding to call it a day. I run up to the changing rooms, shower, freshen up and get my stuff together. I decide that I am going to see if my jaw (still a little sore) can cope with a honey and sunflower bagel with turkey and cream cheese, so I run into the Bagel Factory before I leave. Yes – Bagel seems to be manageable. So I leave, but as I walk out of the door onto Endell Street the cream cheese gets the better of me and I manage to smooth it all over my cheek. Attractive!
“Hi!” Someone taps me on the back.
I spin around while wiping the remnants of the cream cheese from my mouth. Then I almost choke because the person who has accosted me is none other than the guy from the gym. THE guy from the gym. Again, I miraculously regain my composure in record time, while trying to swallow without choking. “Hi” I say, very, very coolly. “What’s up?”
He smiles. Wow! That smile!!! My knees weaken. “This is going to sound really crap, but I think I know you. Aren’t you Chris?”
“Yeah,” I respond, hoping and praying that I haven’t got any more cream cheese on my face. “We know each other from somewhere don’t we?”
“From the Shadow Lounge a few weeks ago. You were talking to my friend Jason.”
Now I’m really lost. I mean it’s very possible that I have seen him before in Shadow Lounge, but I don’t remember speaking to anyone called Jason. I don’t know anyone called Jason. I grin. “I have a really bad habit of talking to people for ages and then not remembering their name. Sorry! Did I talk to you as well?”
“I think we were kind of introduced, but that was it.”
“You know I thought I recognized you downstairs, but thought that I’d probably just seen you out and about. So we were introduced? Needless to say I’ve forgotten your name!”
“Jake,” he stretches out his hand…
Now anyone who knows me knows that Jake is one of my favorite names ever. Really masculine and simple and unusual. So I can’t believe that I a) met him and didn’t try to keep talking to him and b) forgot his name when it’s, like, one of my fave names!
I accept his handshake. “Christopher. But you already know that!”
So we start chatting and he tells me who Jason is, cause I have no recollection at all. And I explain that I have a memory like a sieve and that very probably I was fucked up anyway. And all the time all I can think is “Why are you talking to me? Why are you talking to me?”
After a couple of minutes the customary pleasantries seem to be winding themselves up and it is probably time for one of us to move on. And because I am nervous as hell it’s me. “Well it was really nice to meet you…again!”
“Um…so do you have any plans for this evening?” Now he’s looking sheepish. Could he be asking me out? No. Definitely not. He’s just being polite.
“A bit sad I’m afraid. No plans so I’m staying in to watch TV!”
“Oh ok. Um…well do you fancy going for a drink. I mean if you don’t have to get home soon?”
Oh…my…god…! Inside I’m dissolving. This can’t be happening. And all the time, regardless of the fact that now it’s very clear that he’s hitting on me, there is still this voice in my head going “he’s just being friendly!”
But outside I’m working. “Sure. That would be nice.”
So we wander off in no particular direction. We chat about the inconsequential – how long we’ve been going to Cannons, how long we usually work out for, etc – the whole way down the street until we get to Opollo’s, some bar I’ve been to only a couple of times before. “Do you want to go here?” I ask, “or somewhere, er, gay?”
“Here is fine.”
So we go in. And for the next two hours or so we literally don’t stop talking. And I don’t get too drunk, considering that I’ve just worked out and am now replacing all my fluids with lager!
So this is Jake in a nutshell. 32, a lawyer in the City, originally from Cheshire and yes he did go to a boys school, hence the posh accent. Graduated in Law from Cardiff University in 1995 and that’s when he moved to London. Been in one long term relationship – four years – but broke up with him last year after he discovered the boyfriend cheating on him. Used to have a dog but the boyfriend got that in the “divorce.” Goes clubbing from time to time, but has grown out of the whole drug scene so tries to limit it to once a month. LOVES the movies and his favorite recent film was Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. This provides about half an hour of conversation in itself as I too have only just seen it and LOVED it.
And so the evening goes until I look at my phone and notice that it’s about 9.30pm. “Do you have to go?” he asks me?
“No. But was just thinking that I missed French & Saunders!”
“Well that’s ok, cause I taped it,” he says giving my knee a gentle squeeze, smiling cockily. At this point my pulse quickens dramatically.
“Really? Well I guess I’ll have to come round and watch it sometime.”
“You could come round tonight and watch it?”
And then I did something I almost NEVER do…I blew him out.
“Um. The thing is that, if I’m going to be really honest, this is all going quite well and I think that, er, maybe we should leave it for another time. Kind of quit while the going is good?”
“Got it,” he says and doesn’t look crushed, which kind of annoys me. “But you don’t have to go yet, do you? I was thinking we could go somewhere else…maybe get something to eat?”
So we settle up and leave and start walking. Again, we don’t seem to be heading towards anywhere in particular…just walking. And he keeps doing this thing where he kind of playfully bumps into me when I’m talking and then smiles like he’s been naughty.
We end up walking down to Embankment and I ask where he wants to go, cause really there’s only Q-Bar and Heaven and I’m not really in the mood to go clubbing! He says that there is this really nice bar across the Thames on the Festival Hall side so we walk over the bridge. Halfway over he insists that we stop to take in the view. I have to agree – the view from Waterloo bridge is one of my favorites of London. Especially at that time of the night because the water picks up the reflection of all the lights along the bankside. So we stand there side by side and no one is saying anything. So then I can feel him looking at me, so I turn, and then as I do he looks away as if he’s been caught out.
We cross the river and start walking along the South Bank, past the Festival Hall. And I ask where this bar is and then he kind of smirks. “Well there is this bar further along that’s ok I guess, but if we keep walking we’ll come to where I live and I was thinking that maybe we could have a few drinks there.”
I give him my best “I thought we had this discussion” look while at the same time mulling the proposition over. I mean I had been strong enough to say that I wasn’t coming back in the first place. Maybe I could go for a bit and be strong enough later to not stay the night. Yeah, I could do that…no problem.
So I make up my mind, but of course, for effect, I kinda act like I am still thinking about it. I want to look like one of these guys that is NOT easily bowled over by a guy like this one!
After a well chosen delay of about 1.5 seconds I respond, “Ok, but seriously, just one or two drinks. I can’t stay…I have about a million things I need to do tomorrow.”
He nods earnestly, “Definitely. Just one or two.” And then he smiles and I know that things aren’t gonna go my way.
We carry on walking along South Bank, past the OXO tower, past IPC, until eventually we get to Blackfriars, then down this street until we get to this building. We go in and he says “Evening” or something like that to the doorman. It’s a pretty unspectacular lobby. We get into the lift and as soon as the doors close he turns to me and starts to kiss me. Really, really well I might add.
The lift stops at somesuch floor and we stop kissing and emerge into this hall area. His apartment seems to be right at the end, and it’s kind of a long hall and I semi-consciously look around for the fire escape. I always do that. I don’t know why…
Well I’ve already described the apartment. We haven’t discussed how much money he earns but I’m guessing it has to be a lot. And he’s posh obviously, so perhaps he has money from parents. I don’t know. Not that it really matters (dollar signs appearing in my head!)
Anyway - I’ve written too much already. I won’t give you all the other minute details. But I’ll leave you with this: we did have more than two glasses of wine. And I did stay the night (well that’s obvious isn’t it, cause I’m still here!) I am a bit worried about writing this on his computer. He left at about 11am to go to the office but said I could stay as long as I wanted, which is pretty trusting for someone he’s only really properly met once.
But you see the thing is this…when I got up there was this note on the kitchen counter reading:
“I’m hoping you might still be here when I get back. About 4pm. Can you wait? J x”
And you know what? I don’t think I will! I’m a busy boy and have a hundred and one things to do, for real. But not until I have another coffee, and pretend that it’s my apartment and my kitchen!
(Yeah, I’m leaving my number! I’m not a complete fool!)
Modern Technology
So today flat 12 joined the technological revolution! Yes - we now have cable AND ssuper fast speed broadband. Now I can download porn ad infinitum. Yay!
So today I was having lunch with my friend Tyler and he was telling me that he just spontaneously (combusted! Sorry, am being silly) came out with this line to his mum the other day. He said "I may not be god's gift to man, but I think that men are god's gift to me." I quite like that. Although somewhat doubt it's originality.
So I didn't end up going to Kate's birthday last night. I was just too hungover. I don't often get hangovers (being such a lush) but that one was BAD! Anyway - slept until about 7.30pm and then Vix persuaded me to come to Exhibit B to see Rachel. I think she only wanted me to go so that I could drive her, knowing that I wouldn't be drinking.
Anyway. Had a nice evening. Talked a lot about the pros and cons of internet dating. And we ate loads of barsnacks. This wasn't so good because when I got home and got into bed it became rapidly apparent that I was about to vomit. Got to my bedroom door and realised that the kitchen was gonna be a safer bet than the bathroom - nearer. So don't tell Vix but I chundered in the kitchen sink. And the worst thing was that I had to twizzle my finger around in the sinkhole to make, er, everything go away. I know, I know...gross. But I'm not proud. I think the Jorizo Chips were the straw that broke the camel's back.
So today I was having lunch with my friend Tyler and he was telling me that he just spontaneously (combusted! Sorry, am being silly) came out with this line to his mum the other day. He said "I may not be god's gift to man, but I think that men are god's gift to me." I quite like that. Although somewhat doubt it's originality.
So I didn't end up going to Kate's birthday last night. I was just too hungover. I don't often get hangovers (being such a lush) but that one was BAD! Anyway - slept until about 7.30pm and then Vix persuaded me to come to Exhibit B to see Rachel. I think she only wanted me to go so that I could drive her, knowing that I wouldn't be drinking.
Anyway. Had a nice evening. Talked a lot about the pros and cons of internet dating. And we ate loads of barsnacks. This wasn't so good because when I got home and got into bed it became rapidly apparent that I was about to vomit. Got to my bedroom door and realised that the kitchen was gonna be a safer bet than the bathroom - nearer. So don't tell Vix but I chundered in the kitchen sink. And the worst thing was that I had to twizzle my finger around in the sinkhole to make, er, everything go away. I know, I know...gross. But I'm not proud. I think the Jorizo Chips were the straw that broke the camel's back.
Thursday, October 21, 2004
Yeah, but no, but yeah...
"Cause what happened was right that you know the Redmon sisters? Well they found a verruca sock in the ladies changing rooms and so Rochelle put it in Carrie’s bag and like she completely had an eppy and turned up to Kamal Sharma’s party with a compass that she nicked from school and stabbed Kamal Sharma. But anyway Shelley Bentley gave Craig Sherman a blow job in the shallow end for a bit of his Funny Foot ice cream. Anyway I couldn’t have done nuffin because I was with Michaela the whole time because she was crying because you know Dominic Malone? Well she was supposed to be goin down the swings with him to go to third base. But anyway Ian Papworth, who I once got off with as a joke nicked a whole bottle of Dubonnet off Stacey Malin’s mum and hid it in the woods but then he couldn’t find it but then he did find it but then he didn’t like it so he threw it at a family of gypos."
Yes - I have been vegging for the past two hours in front of the sofa watching Little Britain. I am OBSESSED with Vicky Pollard. For those of you who haven’t watched the show, Vicky is the illiterate, delinquent teenager – we all had one in our class – who talks with a very strong farmer accent, which is particularly hilarious to me as I come from the West Country!
Anyway. I am suffering from a hangover, the likes of which I haven’t known for quite some time. After having a very nice catch up with Will on the phone I went over to Matt’s house last night for dinner. We ended up necking two bottles off wine and half a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin before going to sleep at like 4am or something. Was rudely awakened at 8am by a load of builders outside. But one of them was really cute so I didn’t mind too much!
So…the old wives tale of “Hair of the Dog” is not to be believed. Thinking that another glass of wine might do the trick in terms of ridding me of said hangover, when I got home I, er well, drank a glass of wine. It didn’t work. It just had the effect of making me feel really, really nauseous. So don’t do it is my advice. In fact my advice is…don’t drink. I know I won’t be again. For next four hours at least. It’s Kate’s birthday and we're celebrating it tonight at Sam’s pad. I am reliably informed that there will be alcohol present. Yay!
Yes - I have been vegging for the past two hours in front of the sofa watching Little Britain. I am OBSESSED with Vicky Pollard. For those of you who haven’t watched the show, Vicky is the illiterate, delinquent teenager – we all had one in our class – who talks with a very strong farmer accent, which is particularly hilarious to me as I come from the West Country!
Anyway. I am suffering from a hangover, the likes of which I haven’t known for quite some time. After having a very nice catch up with Will on the phone I went over to Matt’s house last night for dinner. We ended up necking two bottles off wine and half a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin before going to sleep at like 4am or something. Was rudely awakened at 8am by a load of builders outside. But one of them was really cute so I didn’t mind too much!
So…the old wives tale of “Hair of the Dog” is not to be believed. Thinking that another glass of wine might do the trick in terms of ridding me of said hangover, when I got home I, er well, drank a glass of wine. It didn’t work. It just had the effect of making me feel really, really nauseous. So don’t do it is my advice. In fact my advice is…don’t drink. I know I won’t be again. For next four hours at least. It’s Kate’s birthday and we're celebrating it tonight at Sam’s pad. I am reliably informed that there will be alcohol present. Yay!
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
Weird Dream No.1456
So I am in this old castle which is kind of like Hogwarts I guess and I am stood at the top of this stepladder trying to get these two old spell books off their hooks. And then I get the rings at the top of these two spell books caught together and I can't seperate them.
Then this scary wizard says "you'd better get those seperated quick sharp!"
So I run into this kitchen-like room and there are these two old witches and I ask them if there is a spell to seperate two things that are caught together. And they say "of course - just point your magic wand at them and say 'Right Said Fred'"
What...the...f!!!???
Then this scary wizard says "you'd better get those seperated quick sharp!"
So I run into this kitchen-like room and there are these two old witches and I ask them if there is a spell to seperate two things that are caught together. And they say "of course - just point your magic wand at them and say 'Right Said Fred'"
What...the...f!!!???
Jamiroquai
I have a temporary freelance job with a company called _______. I keep wanting to say Jamiroquai, but that's wrong. It's a ten person agency, so I'm going to be a big fish in a small pond, but that's good. Momma's got bring home the bacon, after all.
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
Christmas in October
Yes. It’s official. Christmas is here.
Not only I have just seen the first Christmas commercial of the year (an ad for Disneyland Paris) but I also just experienced a newly decorated Tesco – complete with garlands and special offers on yuletide logs. I mean who the hell is going to buy a yuletide log? Maybe the kind of people who are so organized that they buy their Christmas presents throughout the course of the year. I’ve always wanted to do that. But of course I never do and I appease myself with the idea that it’s probably a bit sad to do that anyway.
No – this year, as always, I will be doing my Christmas shopping in Bath on Christmas Eve. If you see me running hectically along Milsom Street on the 24th December it would probably be best to give me a wide berth as I will probably burst into tears with the stress of it all.
So anyway, since I had the elastic and metal taken off on Friday I haven’t really gone mad for the kinds of foods that I haven’t been able to eat. That changed this evening. I was sat here watching TV and suddenly got a craving for donuts. So I jumped into the car and drove to Tesco. Not only did I buy 20 mini donuts but also six Mr. Kipling bakewell slices, a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia, six Dairylea Slices (light I might add) and 2 pints of Chocolate milkshake. Yummy.
Now I definitely have to go to the gym tomorrow to burn it all off.
Not only I have just seen the first Christmas commercial of the year (an ad for Disneyland Paris) but I also just experienced a newly decorated Tesco – complete with garlands and special offers on yuletide logs. I mean who the hell is going to buy a yuletide log? Maybe the kind of people who are so organized that they buy their Christmas presents throughout the course of the year. I’ve always wanted to do that. But of course I never do and I appease myself with the idea that it’s probably a bit sad to do that anyway.
No – this year, as always, I will be doing my Christmas shopping in Bath on Christmas Eve. If you see me running hectically along Milsom Street on the 24th December it would probably be best to give me a wide berth as I will probably burst into tears with the stress of it all.
So anyway, since I had the elastic and metal taken off on Friday I haven’t really gone mad for the kinds of foods that I haven’t been able to eat. That changed this evening. I was sat here watching TV and suddenly got a craving for donuts. So I jumped into the car and drove to Tesco. Not only did I buy 20 mini donuts but also six Mr. Kipling bakewell slices, a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia, six Dairylea Slices (light I might add) and 2 pints of Chocolate milkshake. Yummy.
Now I definitely have to go to the gym tomorrow to burn it all off.
Monday, October 18, 2004
The Result
Didn’t fancy Mauro.
Ended up in Nightingales, drunk with my top off, dancing to Shakira. Finished the evening off by making out with an 18 year old Daniel Radcliff (Harry Potter) lookalike.
I was saying to Clare today that there is someth ing creepy about snogging 18 year olds. Imagine me at 14 looking at a baby and saying “I’m gonna snog him one day!” Ew! EW!!!
Ended up in Nightingales, drunk with my top off, dancing to Shakira. Finished the evening off by making out with an 18 year old Daniel Radcliff (Harry Potter) lookalike.
I was saying to Clare today that there is someth ing creepy about snogging 18 year olds. Imagine me at 14 looking at a baby and saying “I’m gonna snog him one day!” Ew! EW!!!
Sunday, October 17, 2004
Blind Date
So I didn’t get much sleep. I had to be on a train to Birmingham at 2pm, you see. Bearing in mind my lack of rest I am actually quite excited. I’m on one of the new trains in Virgin’s fleet – the ones that tilt when they go around a corner. I’m keeping a close eye on my complementary cup of tea (I paid the ten pound weekend upgrade to First Class) to see if it spills over as we round treacherous bends.
Did you know that Virgin First Class has little output sockets so that you can listen to a soothing collection of classical music? And that every seat comes with it’s own AC socket so that you can charge your laptop? So as I write this I am powering up my trusty little iBook, thanks to Mr. Branson.
So tonight I am going on a blind date, set up for me by a woman. Well it’s a kind of blind date – I’ll come onto that in a minute. Now, usually I avoid blind dates like the plague because with all due respect, women are just not very accomplished at matchmaking gay men. Sorry ladies, but you’re just not.
Ok, this is going to sound like I am trying to ingratiate myself, but bear with me. I have a theory that all women are ever so slightly in love with their gay boyfriends. I’m not talking about the kind of love that speaks in the language of heart flips, poetry and The Carpenters’ Greatest Hits (well maybe the Carpenters’ Greatest Hits.) I’m talking about the same kind of love that Mum’s have for David Essex and Richard Chamberlain.
Put it this way – how many times have you heard a woman describe her best gay boyfriend with the following adjectives – “Gorgeous!”, “Funny!”, “Stylish!” Yes? A few? And how many times have you (I am directing this question to my fellow gayers) eventually met said gay boyfriend on a highly orchestrated and artificial blind date and discovered that while, yes, he is actually quite funny and yes, come to think of it he is quite stylish (although, duh, he is gay afterall!), it is clearly apparent that he was beaten mercilessly with the ugly stick at a very young age. Girls always tend to omit that small little detail.
So why don’t girls notice any negative physical traits in gay men? The answer is this. Every gayer is born with an and innate and inherent cunning in terms of exactly what is required in order to make his girlfriend (and, incidently, all mothers) fall in love with him. All it takes are one or two carefully chosen liners, a la “You look fabulous in that Beret. No, it doesn’t make your face look fat. To me it just screams Faye Dunaway in Bonnie & Clyde,” and girlfriend is yours for the long haul. No more will she see the slightly bulbous tip of your nose, developing jowels, thread-veins (too many frozen Cosmopolitans) and receding hairline – from this day forward she will see only the devilishly handsome, eternally reliable and oh-so-sensitive prince within. Ha! Pushovers!!!
Just a quick aside – it has been documented that it is not only gay men have the gift of afore mentioned “innate and inherent cunning.” Ever wonder why there are so many gorgeous women on the arms of fat, shiny faced gnomes? They too have the power to make women feel like a million pounds. Incidentally, I’ve always wondered, before the introduction of the Euro of course, if Italian men would ever say (in Italian) “Baby – you look like a million lire tonight”, because a million lire is not actually very much money.
I digress. On the whole women are matchmakers. It’s in their blood. And on the whole the mature gay man, especially those in their 30s (!) are, when it comes to matters of the heart, somewhat cynical (by 30 overall general disappointment and failure becomes somewhat less painful – each new occurrence just conjures up a sense of nostalgia for all the previous disappointments.)
But even while we may be cynical, most of us gay boys can be at the same time slightly romantically delusional (blame too many late night re-runs of Meg Ryan movies), believing that our very own knight in shining armor is just around the corner, waiting to sweep us up and place us on the back of his valiant and trusty steed, before riding us off into the crimson sunset (to live forever in a choicely furnished Manhattan style loft apartment.)
But this is the important thing - all gay men would like their potential life partner to be good looking. They just do. Us gays are a shallow bunch, but accept the fact that we like the world to look beautiful. More so if you are a Libran (me). And good looking does not have to be the latest Calvin Klein underwear model (although…). I for example have a really big crush on Colin Firth, who while not a minger by any standards, is also not Freddie Ljundberg.
So, you go into work and Samantha (or Smanfah if she is from Essex) from accounts insists that you simply must meet her really good friend Graham. She asserts that you will love him. It is important that you note that she will use the word “gorgeous” as an overall character descriptor, and does not necessarily mean that he is, well, gorgeous, exclamation mark! Note that when we say “Is he good looking?” we will always be answered with the affirmative. But again, remember that she is seeing the inner prince, not the outer frog. And that she is in love with him a bit. And that she is a girl. And that girls are a bit stupid.
Yes, I have had my fingers burned by blind dates. One time my friend Superna set me up with this guy called Simon (name changed, not to protect the innocent, but because I can’t remember it) – we met at the Prince of Bonapartes in Maida Vale. I have no idea why because it’s not even a gay bar. So he walks in and he cannot be considered by anyone’s (apart from Superna’s) standards, attractive. Long, waxy, intensely curly hair and fat. And wearing a tie-died T-shirt. But yes, I will graciously concede to the fact that he was really lovely.
I’m not saying that every gay blind date is aesthetically disastrous. For instance there was a date I went on with this really cute guy called Michael (real name), but about an hour into the date he ruined it by announcing to me that he had sufffered from numerous STI's. It kinda put me off.
So why am I going on a blind date tonight? Well a while ago I was talking to Clare about who my perfect boyfriend would be. He is late twenties / early thirties, Italian, an architect, very funny, likes staying in on a Friday night and cuddling infront of the TV, wears glasses sometimes, floppy brown hair that he keeps pushing back off his face, dark brown eyes, a great cook, a wine expert, sensitive, likes walks on the beach, not afraid to cry, has a Labrador and reads Keat’s just for a laugh (I know, I’ve never been very specific.)
Earlier this week Clare calls me and wants to know if I want to join her and her buddies on the annual Gay Switchboard Tour. I am reliably informed that my Italian Dream Boat fantasy might actually come true and while I am not really looking to date right now, the opportunity is intriguing. There is an Italian gay man called Mauro who has just joined the group and she thinks that I might like him. He’s not an architect, but is handsome and is an artist, which peaks my interest sufficiently.
Now Clare is not any old woman. As a lesbian she has special immunity from Gay Boy Bullshit and therefore does not develop platonic crushes on her gay male friends, so can objectively tell the handsome ones from the not so handsome ones. Also Clare knows double that I can be a fairly fickle chap and would not try to set me up with anyone who could be deemed below par.
So tonight I am going on a blind date, although it’s pretty failsafe if I don’t fancy him, cause he doesn’t actually know it’s a blind date, and has never heard of me before in his life.
But if I do like him I will be seducing him with my newly regained mega-watt killer smile (metal/elastic was taken out yesterday) and sparkling, witty small talk. Roar!
Did you know that Virgin First Class has little output sockets so that you can listen to a soothing collection of classical music? And that every seat comes with it’s own AC socket so that you can charge your laptop? So as I write this I am powering up my trusty little iBook, thanks to Mr. Branson.
So tonight I am going on a blind date, set up for me by a woman. Well it’s a kind of blind date – I’ll come onto that in a minute. Now, usually I avoid blind dates like the plague because with all due respect, women are just not very accomplished at matchmaking gay men. Sorry ladies, but you’re just not.
Ok, this is going to sound like I am trying to ingratiate myself, but bear with me. I have a theory that all women are ever so slightly in love with their gay boyfriends. I’m not talking about the kind of love that speaks in the language of heart flips, poetry and The Carpenters’ Greatest Hits (well maybe the Carpenters’ Greatest Hits.) I’m talking about the same kind of love that Mum’s have for David Essex and Richard Chamberlain.
Put it this way – how many times have you heard a woman describe her best gay boyfriend with the following adjectives – “Gorgeous!”, “Funny!”, “Stylish!” Yes? A few? And how many times have you (I am directing this question to my fellow gayers) eventually met said gay boyfriend on a highly orchestrated and artificial blind date and discovered that while, yes, he is actually quite funny and yes, come to think of it he is quite stylish (although, duh, he is gay afterall!), it is clearly apparent that he was beaten mercilessly with the ugly stick at a very young age. Girls always tend to omit that small little detail.
So why don’t girls notice any negative physical traits in gay men? The answer is this. Every gayer is born with an and innate and inherent cunning in terms of exactly what is required in order to make his girlfriend (and, incidently, all mothers) fall in love with him. All it takes are one or two carefully chosen liners, a la “You look fabulous in that Beret. No, it doesn’t make your face look fat. To me it just screams Faye Dunaway in Bonnie & Clyde,” and girlfriend is yours for the long haul. No more will she see the slightly bulbous tip of your nose, developing jowels, thread-veins (too many frozen Cosmopolitans) and receding hairline – from this day forward she will see only the devilishly handsome, eternally reliable and oh-so-sensitive prince within. Ha! Pushovers!!!
Just a quick aside – it has been documented that it is not only gay men have the gift of afore mentioned “innate and inherent cunning.” Ever wonder why there are so many gorgeous women on the arms of fat, shiny faced gnomes? They too have the power to make women feel like a million pounds. Incidentally, I’ve always wondered, before the introduction of the Euro of course, if Italian men would ever say (in Italian) “Baby – you look like a million lire tonight”, because a million lire is not actually very much money.
I digress. On the whole women are matchmakers. It’s in their blood. And on the whole the mature gay man, especially those in their 30s (!) are, when it comes to matters of the heart, somewhat cynical (by 30 overall general disappointment and failure becomes somewhat less painful – each new occurrence just conjures up a sense of nostalgia for all the previous disappointments.)
But even while we may be cynical, most of us gay boys can be at the same time slightly romantically delusional (blame too many late night re-runs of Meg Ryan movies), believing that our very own knight in shining armor is just around the corner, waiting to sweep us up and place us on the back of his valiant and trusty steed, before riding us off into the crimson sunset (to live forever in a choicely furnished Manhattan style loft apartment.)
But this is the important thing - all gay men would like their potential life partner to be good looking. They just do. Us gays are a shallow bunch, but accept the fact that we like the world to look beautiful. More so if you are a Libran (me). And good looking does not have to be the latest Calvin Klein underwear model (although…). I for example have a really big crush on Colin Firth, who while not a minger by any standards, is also not Freddie Ljundberg.
So, you go into work and Samantha (or Smanfah if she is from Essex) from accounts insists that you simply must meet her really good friend Graham. She asserts that you will love him. It is important that you note that she will use the word “gorgeous” as an overall character descriptor, and does not necessarily mean that he is, well, gorgeous, exclamation mark! Note that when we say “Is he good looking?” we will always be answered with the affirmative. But again, remember that she is seeing the inner prince, not the outer frog. And that she is in love with him a bit. And that she is a girl. And that girls are a bit stupid.
Yes, I have had my fingers burned by blind dates. One time my friend Superna set me up with this guy called Simon (name changed, not to protect the innocent, but because I can’t remember it) – we met at the Prince of Bonapartes in Maida Vale. I have no idea why because it’s not even a gay bar. So he walks in and he cannot be considered by anyone’s (apart from Superna’s) standards, attractive. Long, waxy, intensely curly hair and fat. And wearing a tie-died T-shirt. But yes, I will graciously concede to the fact that he was really lovely.
I’m not saying that every gay blind date is aesthetically disastrous. For instance there was a date I went on with this really cute guy called Michael (real name), but about an hour into the date he ruined it by announcing to me that he had sufffered from numerous STI's. It kinda put me off.
So why am I going on a blind date tonight? Well a while ago I was talking to Clare about who my perfect boyfriend would be. He is late twenties / early thirties, Italian, an architect, very funny, likes staying in on a Friday night and cuddling infront of the TV, wears glasses sometimes, floppy brown hair that he keeps pushing back off his face, dark brown eyes, a great cook, a wine expert, sensitive, likes walks on the beach, not afraid to cry, has a Labrador and reads Keat’s just for a laugh (I know, I’ve never been very specific.)
Earlier this week Clare calls me and wants to know if I want to join her and her buddies on the annual Gay Switchboard Tour. I am reliably informed that my Italian Dream Boat fantasy might actually come true and while I am not really looking to date right now, the opportunity is intriguing. There is an Italian gay man called Mauro who has just joined the group and she thinks that I might like him. He’s not an architect, but is handsome and is an artist, which peaks my interest sufficiently.
Now Clare is not any old woman. As a lesbian she has special immunity from Gay Boy Bullshit and therefore does not develop platonic crushes on her gay male friends, so can objectively tell the handsome ones from the not so handsome ones. Also Clare knows double that I can be a fairly fickle chap and would not try to set me up with anyone who could be deemed below par.
So tonight I am going on a blind date, although it’s pretty failsafe if I don’t fancy him, cause he doesn’t actually know it’s a blind date, and has never heard of me before in his life.
But if I do like him I will be seducing him with my newly regained mega-watt killer smile (metal/elastic was taken out yesterday) and sparkling, witty small talk. Roar!
Saturday, October 16, 2004
Eurgh...
I feel like the underside of a camels scrotum right now. I have just got in after a marathon clubbing session with Kelly and Mark.
Started at The Box, then onto The Edge, then Fiction followed by A:M. It's 9.22am and I have been dancing non stop for almost ten hours.
Dang, my legs are gonna ache later!
And that's about it. I am too befuddled to write anything more cerebral. Cheerio, etc.
(I think I'm still drunk)
Started at The Box, then onto The Edge, then Fiction followed by A:M. It's 9.22am and I have been dancing non stop for almost ten hours.
Dang, my legs are gonna ache later!
And that's about it. I am too befuddled to write anything more cerebral. Cheerio, etc.
(I think I'm still drunk)
Friday, October 15, 2004
Spot the deliberate mistake
It's not actually Friday. Stupid Christopher! (Hits self hard around head.)
Stupid Spice Girls
Poor Mel B. Her career over, all her money taken by Jimmy Gulzar... you would almost feel sorry for her, were it not for the fact that she is such a vile cow.
According to Popbitch a dinner guest at Mel B's mansion during happier times, reported that Mel had a giant ornately-carved gold and wood chess set in her living room.
While coming back from the toilet, the guest spotted Mel's dog humping and chewing one of the pawns.
"Don't worry,” said Mel. “It's only one of the little pieces. I've got 16 of those."
Silly moo.
And just because it’s Friday, here’s a little joke to make you chuckle:
A man walks into a bar dressed as Shakespeare.
The barman says "Get Out - you're barred."
Boom boom!
Yeah, ok…I’m going, I’m going…
According to Popbitch a dinner guest at Mel B's mansion during happier times, reported that Mel had a giant ornately-carved gold and wood chess set in her living room.
While coming back from the toilet, the guest spotted Mel's dog humping and chewing one of the pawns.
"Don't worry,” said Mel. “It's only one of the little pieces. I've got 16 of those."
Silly moo.
And just because it’s Friday, here’s a little joke to make you chuckle:
A man walks into a bar dressed as Shakespeare.
The barman says "Get Out - you're barred."
Boom boom!
Yeah, ok…I’m going, I’m going…
Thursday, October 14, 2004
The Opposite of a Kiss
My friend Lara and I were talking at lunch about the existential and stuff. She asked me what would be the opposite of a kiss. This is what I think it is...
It repels. It does not draw you in.
There is no gentle sigh afterwards. It is cold. Dry.
It sucks the air out of your lungs. Not like an exhale.
There is a vacuum with no end and no beginning.
It does not leave you wanting more.
It is like a shock from an electrified fence. It is ice on glass.
It repels. It does not draw you in.
There is no gentle sigh afterwards. It is cold. Dry.
It sucks the air out of your lungs. Not like an exhale.
There is a vacuum with no end and no beginning.
It does not leave you wanting more.
It is like a shock from an electrified fence. It is ice on glass.
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
Life from both sides...
Driving back through Hampton Court. The sun is setting and the sky looks pinky mauve. I feel content and although the gearbox is a bit clunky (I keep almost putting the car into reverse) the world seems good and full of infinite possibilities. And then this song comes on the radio. It’s Joni Mitchell, and she sings…
Rows and floes of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I’ve looked at clouds that way
But now they only block the sun
They rain and snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way
I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It’s cloud illusions I recall
I really don’t know clouds at all
Moons and dunes and ferris wheels
The dizzy dancing way you feel
As every fairy tale comes real
I’ve looked at love that way
But now it’s just another show
You leave ’em laughing when you go
And if you care, don’t let them know
Don’t give yourself away
I’ve looked at love from both sides now
From give and take, and still somehow
It’s love’s illusions I recall
I really don’t know love at all
Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say I love you right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I’ve looked at life that way
But now old friends are acting strange
They shake their heads, they say I’ve changed
Well something’s lost, but something’s gained
In living every day
I’ve looked at life from both sides now
From win and lose and still somehow
It’s life’s illusions I recall
I really don’t know life at all
I’ve looked at life from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It’s life’s illusions I recall
I really don’t know life at all
Yeah, it sounds depressing. But somehow it wasn’t. It was a moment and I felt…well, I felt like a grown man.
Rows and floes of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I’ve looked at clouds that way
But now they only block the sun
They rain and snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way
I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It’s cloud illusions I recall
I really don’t know clouds at all
Moons and dunes and ferris wheels
The dizzy dancing way you feel
As every fairy tale comes real
I’ve looked at love that way
But now it’s just another show
You leave ’em laughing when you go
And if you care, don’t let them know
Don’t give yourself away
I’ve looked at love from both sides now
From give and take, and still somehow
It’s love’s illusions I recall
I really don’t know love at all
Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say I love you right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I’ve looked at life that way
But now old friends are acting strange
They shake their heads, they say I’ve changed
Well something’s lost, but something’s gained
In living every day
I’ve looked at life from both sides now
From win and lose and still somehow
It’s life’s illusions I recall
I really don’t know life at all
I’ve looked at life from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It’s life’s illusions I recall
I really don’t know life at all
Yeah, it sounds depressing. But somehow it wasn’t. It was a moment and I felt…well, I felt like a grown man.
Monday, October 11, 2004
Air Force One
This might be a really boring read for the rest of you, but to me, well, this kind of stuff brings out the straight boy geek in me…
I have just been reading an article in the newspaper about Air Force One. Did you know that it is one of the most technologically advanced and secure vessels in the air today?
The plane, also known as “Angel”, undergoes rigorous maintenance everyday whether the plane is flying or not. Every 154 days, the plane is completely taken apart and put back together again.
24 hours before wheels-up, the plane’s fuel is sealed in a tank truck guarded by sharpshooters. One hour before wheels-up, Air Force specialists analyze fuel for purity and the right levels of octane and water.
The wiring on the plane is shielded to protect it from a thermonuclear blast.
If you want to sabotage Air Force One you have to get past 48 armed members of the Airlift Security Unit or join the maintenance crew, which takes 12 years after a two year background check.
The plane takes off at an above normal velocity and altitude vector for a Boeing 747. This is to minimize the risk of the plane being hit by any ground to air weapons systems.
I once saw Air Force One on the tarmac at Kennedy in NYC. I got goosebumps!
I have just been reading an article in the newspaper about Air Force One. Did you know that it is one of the most technologically advanced and secure vessels in the air today?
The plane, also known as “Angel”, undergoes rigorous maintenance everyday whether the plane is flying or not. Every 154 days, the plane is completely taken apart and put back together again.
24 hours before wheels-up, the plane’s fuel is sealed in a tank truck guarded by sharpshooters. One hour before wheels-up, Air Force specialists analyze fuel for purity and the right levels of octane and water.
The wiring on the plane is shielded to protect it from a thermonuclear blast.
If you want to sabotage Air Force One you have to get past 48 armed members of the Airlift Security Unit or join the maintenance crew, which takes 12 years after a two year background check.
The plane takes off at an above normal velocity and altitude vector for a Boeing 747. This is to minimize the risk of the plane being hit by any ground to air weapons systems.
I once saw Air Force One on the tarmac at Kennedy in NYC. I got goosebumps!
Do Fern's Count Sheep?
Have you ever woken up in the middle of the night but in actuality you’re not really awake, but still in a dream like state? Where the dream feels so real that you’re stood in front of the bathroom washbasin thinking “I have to get back to my customers” or something like that? I have. I had it happen last night. I have no idea what time of the night it was and for right now what I was dreaming about is pretty inconsequential. But last night was like the third time it’s happened in the last week or so.
I’ve often wondered what sort of dreams people have who are born blind. Do they dream in touch, sound and temperature? Has anyone ever documented this?
On the whole I think that humans are the only animal to know the difference between sleeping and dreaming. It doesn’t matter if you are a lion cub, a jellyfish or a fern – I think that wakefulness and dreaming are the same thing to them all. I think that until recently, maybe a few thousand years ago, that was the case for humans too. But then there must have been someone out there who broke the cycle, who told people the difference between the two worlds. And so, for a few centuries, people became used to thinking of real life and dreaming as two different places.
And I thought about this more – maybe it was something to do with yesterday’s billboard. There must have also been someone who told us all about the past, present and future, that a day wasn’t just a day (isn’t this what Trekkies call “Temporal Mechanics”?)
And finally there had to be someone out there who came along and told people that on top of everything else, not only was there life and death, but there was also life after death? Perhaps I am being dumb here. I think that particular someone's name was Jesus.
I think I have too much time on my hands to think about things like this. It is amazing how much more you ponder on things when you don’t have imminent communications reviews to pen.
I’ve often wondered what sort of dreams people have who are born blind. Do they dream in touch, sound and temperature? Has anyone ever documented this?
On the whole I think that humans are the only animal to know the difference between sleeping and dreaming. It doesn’t matter if you are a lion cub, a jellyfish or a fern – I think that wakefulness and dreaming are the same thing to them all. I think that until recently, maybe a few thousand years ago, that was the case for humans too. But then there must have been someone out there who broke the cycle, who told people the difference between the two worlds. And so, for a few centuries, people became used to thinking of real life and dreaming as two different places.
And I thought about this more – maybe it was something to do with yesterday’s billboard. There must have also been someone who told us all about the past, present and future, that a day wasn’t just a day (isn’t this what Trekkies call “Temporal Mechanics”?)
And finally there had to be someone out there who came along and told people that on top of everything else, not only was there life and death, but there was also life after death? Perhaps I am being dumb here. I think that particular someone's name was Jesus.
I think I have too much time on my hands to think about things like this. It is amazing how much more you ponder on things when you don’t have imminent communications reviews to pen.
Sunday, October 10, 2004
Three Words
I came out of the Tate Britain and the sun was shining really gently and the air was bracing, but not too cold. It was Autumn in the most beautiful way and going home on the tube would have been rude. So I started to walk.
Somewhere near Kennington I saw this huge billboard and all it said on it was “Watch this space.” Nothing else. And I thought that was so simple, brilliant and inspiring all at once and the fact that it was probably just a prelude to another advertisement for some new online banking service seemed kind of irrelevant. Maybe the overall theme of the afternoon had put me in a certain frame of mind, but I thought it was luminous and it stirred me enough to write the words down in my notebook.
I’m not one of those people who think, like in F.Scott Fitzgerald, that their best years were 20 years prior. No - I think the best day has got to be the next day. I’m not saying that today is irrelevant. But I think for me life is all about what’s next.
It’s like the billboard - before the actual ad went up they put in, in big block letters:
“Watch this space.”
Somewhere near Kennington I saw this huge billboard and all it said on it was “Watch this space.” Nothing else. And I thought that was so simple, brilliant and inspiring all at once and the fact that it was probably just a prelude to another advertisement for some new online banking service seemed kind of irrelevant. Maybe the overall theme of the afternoon had put me in a certain frame of mind, but I thought it was luminous and it stirred me enough to write the words down in my notebook.
I’m not one of those people who think, like in F.Scott Fitzgerald, that their best years were 20 years prior. No - I think the best day has got to be the next day. I’m not saying that today is irrelevant. But I think for me life is all about what’s next.
It’s like the billboard - before the actual ad went up they put in, in big block letters:
“Watch this space.”
Saturday, October 09, 2004
Two Go Mad in Ikea
Vix and I are currently both ‘sans’ work, so we are making the best of our free days in the manner of lunches, treatments and spa sessions at my gym. Only yesterday’s particular spa treatment was cut short by the spa being closed due to essential maintenance. Apparently the filter in the pool needed changing. No doubt the fault of the really unattractive guy I saw there the other day with hair running all down his back. The kind of length with which you could plait.
So instead of curing our collective hangovers with a refreshing swim, steam and sauna, we decided that we would cleanse ourselves in an entirely different way – with Swedish designed disposable furniture.
I shop at Ikea out of necessity. That being I simply can’t afford to buy my shelving units from Heal’s. I probably visit Ikea about once a year and every visit is preceded with the kind of excitement you feel when you’re very young and your parents take you on a special pre-Christmas trip to Hamleys. It’s the promise of a trolley full of the kinds of things that you didn’t realize that you needed – sets of three matching sandblasted vases, miniature cactuses and the odd Ficus tree.
Yet whenever I actually arrive at Ikea and walk through the doors (it really bothers me, by the way, that every single Ikea I have ever been to, from London to New Jersey, has looked exactly the same) the excitement is washed from me and I am left with the feeling that I left anything resembling personal quirkiness in the carpark. There is nothing in Ikea to dislike. And you have this eerie feeling that you have in fact seen everything before. Which you probably have, in the homes of numerous friends and colleagues.
Anyway – I set myself a budget of thirty pounds and for that I managed to purchase a basic wooden four shelf unit (the kind found in every university student’s bedroom), a wooden box for a white orchid plant and a three photo picture frame. Pretty good going, nest pas?
Did you know that the actual price you pay for the absurdly cheap (68p) Ikea hotdog is that the hotdog itself is, well, gross? Until yesterday I hadn’t actually had one before, but Vix assured me that I really did want one, so I relented and she gleefully bounded off to the hotdog counter while I fumed in the obscenely long queue for the checkout.
So the colour of the hotdog is not the standardized red of the common hotdog, but rather more like a kind of beige. Which led me to think that maybe the hotdog was in fact chicken. Then there is the skin of the hotdog which is extremely thick - only god truly know's what it is made from. So thick was the skin that I was unable to bite through it. Ok, this has something to do with the fact that I currently can’t bite down fully on my front teeth. The effect of this dental misalignment was that whenever I took a bite I actually just squeezed the hotdog meat through end of the skin. I’ll leave you to imagine the overall effect. Vix thought that it was highly amusing. Which of course it wasn't.
I am going to the Tate this afternoon to reestablish my appreciation of aesthetics and design. I might decide to adorn my new Ikea shelving unit with a snazzy new Anish Kapoor bedside lamp.
So instead of curing our collective hangovers with a refreshing swim, steam and sauna, we decided that we would cleanse ourselves in an entirely different way – with Swedish designed disposable furniture.
I shop at Ikea out of necessity. That being I simply can’t afford to buy my shelving units from Heal’s. I probably visit Ikea about once a year and every visit is preceded with the kind of excitement you feel when you’re very young and your parents take you on a special pre-Christmas trip to Hamleys. It’s the promise of a trolley full of the kinds of things that you didn’t realize that you needed – sets of three matching sandblasted vases, miniature cactuses and the odd Ficus tree.
Yet whenever I actually arrive at Ikea and walk through the doors (it really bothers me, by the way, that every single Ikea I have ever been to, from London to New Jersey, has looked exactly the same) the excitement is washed from me and I am left with the feeling that I left anything resembling personal quirkiness in the carpark. There is nothing in Ikea to dislike. And you have this eerie feeling that you have in fact seen everything before. Which you probably have, in the homes of numerous friends and colleagues.
Anyway – I set myself a budget of thirty pounds and for that I managed to purchase a basic wooden four shelf unit (the kind found in every university student’s bedroom), a wooden box for a white orchid plant and a three photo picture frame. Pretty good going, nest pas?
Did you know that the actual price you pay for the absurdly cheap (68p) Ikea hotdog is that the hotdog itself is, well, gross? Until yesterday I hadn’t actually had one before, but Vix assured me that I really did want one, so I relented and she gleefully bounded off to the hotdog counter while I fumed in the obscenely long queue for the checkout.
So the colour of the hotdog is not the standardized red of the common hotdog, but rather more like a kind of beige. Which led me to think that maybe the hotdog was in fact chicken. Then there is the skin of the hotdog which is extremely thick - only god truly know's what it is made from. So thick was the skin that I was unable to bite through it. Ok, this has something to do with the fact that I currently can’t bite down fully on my front teeth. The effect of this dental misalignment was that whenever I took a bite I actually just squeezed the hotdog meat through end of the skin. I’ll leave you to imagine the overall effect. Vix thought that it was highly amusing. Which of course it wasn't.
I am going to the Tate this afternoon to reestablish my appreciation of aesthetics and design. I might decide to adorn my new Ikea shelving unit with a snazzy new Anish Kapoor bedside lamp.
Conversations With a Supermodel and an Actor
A friend told me a story today about a London mini-cab driver who picked up Kate Moss and Daniel Craig last weekend from the Holiday Inn in Camden. He recounted a sample of their conversation:
Daniel, "You're gorgeous"
Kate, "I know that."
Daniel, "You're gorgeous"
Kate, "I know that."
Friday, October 08, 2004
Everybody's Got To Learn Sometime
Change your heart, look around you
Change your heart, it will astound you
I need your loving like the sunshine
And everybody's gotta learn sometime
Everybody's gotta learn sometime
Everybody's gotta learn sometime
Change your heart, look around you
Change your heart, it will astound you
I need your loving like the sunshine
And everybody's gotta learn sometime
Everybody's gotta learn sometime
Everybody's gotta learn sometime
Change your heart, it will astound you
I need your loving like the sunshine
And everybody's gotta learn sometime
Everybody's gotta learn sometime
Everybody's gotta learn sometime
Change your heart, look around you
Change your heart, it will astound you
I need your loving like the sunshine
And everybody's gotta learn sometime
Everybody's gotta learn sometime
Everybody's gotta learn sometime
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
Not Enough Drew in My World
I have just got back from one of those excursions that are always so bitter sweet. Kate and I just dropped Drew off at Heathrow. Sweet because it's always nice to see someone off on a new adventure and chapter in their lives. Bitter because you're saying goodbye.
One of the last cute things I did was when I was about nine. I remember visiting someone in London with my parents and saying goodbye to them at the station as we boarded the train to come back home. I looked at my mum and, trying not to cry, said "Goodbyes make my throat hurt."
Drew has become something really special to me since I came back from New York. He has listened endlessly to my woes and never, not once, complained or belittled me. And he has made me soup with no bits in. And he made me feel good about having a mouth full of elastic and metal - last night he even said that it could be considered almost attractive (I think he may have been trying to humor me.)
So goodbye Drew. I miss you already. I double promise to make sure that I have the car to pick you up from the airport in March!
But something sweet always comes from something sad, and I think that today I made a new friend. I have met Kate on a number of occasions and we have always greeted each other with much enthusiasm. But usually the situation we were in was not conducive to conversation (or rather the state we were in was not conducive to conversation!)
Kate is one of these people who immediately intrigues you and makes you think "I want her to be my friend." So although I wasn't looking forward to today, in that Drew was leaving, I was looking forward to spending some time with Kate, to really start to get to know her. And that I did. No awkward silences on the long journey back into London from Heathrow on the Piccadilly Line - we were chatting nine to the dozen the whole way. And although I didn't tell her this, I actually stayed on the train two stations past my stop because I wanted to carry on talking with her.
We have arranged to meet on Tuesday for lunch. No doubt we will be lamenting the lack of Drew in our worlds.
One of the last cute things I did was when I was about nine. I remember visiting someone in London with my parents and saying goodbye to them at the station as we boarded the train to come back home. I looked at my mum and, trying not to cry, said "Goodbyes make my throat hurt."
Drew has become something really special to me since I came back from New York. He has listened endlessly to my woes and never, not once, complained or belittled me. And he has made me soup with no bits in. And he made me feel good about having a mouth full of elastic and metal - last night he even said that it could be considered almost attractive (I think he may have been trying to humor me.)
So goodbye Drew. I miss you already. I double promise to make sure that I have the car to pick you up from the airport in March!
But something sweet always comes from something sad, and I think that today I made a new friend. I have met Kate on a number of occasions and we have always greeted each other with much enthusiasm. But usually the situation we were in was not conducive to conversation (or rather the state we were in was not conducive to conversation!)
Kate is one of these people who immediately intrigues you and makes you think "I want her to be my friend." So although I wasn't looking forward to today, in that Drew was leaving, I was looking forward to spending some time with Kate, to really start to get to know her. And that I did. No awkward silences on the long journey back into London from Heathrow on the Piccadilly Line - we were chatting nine to the dozen the whole way. And although I didn't tell her this, I actually stayed on the train two stations past my stop because I wanted to carry on talking with her.
We have arranged to meet on Tuesday for lunch. No doubt we will be lamenting the lack of Drew in our worlds.
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
Rapid Eye Movement
Last night I had the strangest dream.
No, this isn't a song lyric. It was an actual dream where me and a bunch of my friends piled into an auditorium, like in a school, ostensibily. We were waiting for REM to play this small, private show. This was basically REM circa somewhere between 94 and 97, so everyone was still in the group, but it was after Bill Berry had an aneurysm and also before he left the band and before Peter Buck got arrested for beating up some stewardesses or whatever.
Anyway, so in my dream, Peter Buck, Bill Berry and Mike Mills filed out first and then a few seconds later, Michael Stipe. And of course he garnered the most hoopla. Anyway, so I'm in something like the third row, and I'm really excited but really cold. So Michael walks up to me and leans over the railing and covers me in this gigantic, comfy fleece blanket, smiles, and then starts the show!
WTF? I won't even get into the number of Freudian daddy issues this brings up as well as the latent Christ imagery.
No, this isn't a song lyric. It was an actual dream where me and a bunch of my friends piled into an auditorium, like in a school, ostensibily. We were waiting for REM to play this small, private show. This was basically REM circa somewhere between 94 and 97, so everyone was still in the group, but it was after Bill Berry had an aneurysm and also before he left the band and before Peter Buck got arrested for beating up some stewardesses or whatever.
Anyway, so in my dream, Peter Buck, Bill Berry and Mike Mills filed out first and then a few seconds later, Michael Stipe. And of course he garnered the most hoopla. Anyway, so I'm in something like the third row, and I'm really excited but really cold. So Michael walks up to me and leans over the railing and covers me in this gigantic, comfy fleece blanket, smiles, and then starts the show!
WTF? I won't even get into the number of Freudian daddy issues this brings up as well as the latent Christ imagery.
Friday, October 01, 2004
Bloody Engineers
The telephone in the apartment has been almosst impossible to use because there has been so much background interference. So I was really proactive the other day and finally got around to calling BT to ask them to send an engineer out. I was informed that they would turn up today between 8am and 1pm. "Ah" I thought. The chance for a lie in. I mean what are the chances of the man turning up at 8am?
Every chance apparently. The engineer seems to think that the neigbours downstairs have been mucking about with the connection box. The same neighbours who play electric guitar at 4am.
Wanna know what I am doing today? Buying a tax disc for the car, lunch with Rachel and then catch a train to Birmingham to spend the weekend with Clare and Lucy. It's Matt's birthday tonight so we are going to get drunkety, drunk, drunk.
Happy weekend everyone!
Every chance apparently. The engineer seems to think that the neigbours downstairs have been mucking about with the connection box. The same neighbours who play electric guitar at 4am.
Wanna know what I am doing today? Buying a tax disc for the car, lunch with Rachel and then catch a train to Birmingham to spend the weekend with Clare and Lucy. It's Matt's birthday tonight so we are going to get drunkety, drunk, drunk.
Happy weekend everyone!
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